The Husband List

by Victoria Alexander

  Becky nodded. “And it doesn’t appear to be at all regular—”

  “You do seem to be paying off father’s debts,” Emma said.

  “In addition to supporting us.” Marianne shrugged. “Not well, but—”

  “Well enough for the moment,” Emma added.

  “Even so …”

  “We’re afraid—” Becky said.

  “That is, concerned—” Emma cut in.

  “That you’re doing something”—Marianne hesitated, then plunged ahead—“illegal.”

  “Immoral,” Emma said.

  “Illicit,” Becky chimed in. “And the last thing we want is to see you thrown into prison.”

  “Or hung,” Jocelyn said darkly. “What will become of us then?”

  For a moment, Richard could only stare in stunned silence. He’d given up his admittedly wicked, but nonetheless enjoyable, ways in exchange for watching every penny. He lived in rooms that no decent gentleman would consider. He worked well into the night until his eyes stung with the fumes of turpentine to produce paintings aimed toward sales and not the joy of creation, and he dabbled in society only as an observer. He’d given up gambling and drinking to excess and, for the most part, women.

  The rest of the world considered him completely reformed and honorable. He’d gained a certain amount of respect and even trust. From everyone but his sisters. Bloody hell, he’d even climbed to the top of Gillian’s damnable list of husbands!

  He forced a note of calm to his voice. “And what, dear sisters, would you say if indeed I was involved in something illegal or immoral or illicit?”

  The girls looked at each other, then each and every gaze focused on him. Their confrontational demeanor disappeared, replaced by determination and something more. Courage?

  “Naturally we would wish you to stop,” Emma said quietly.

  “Would you?” He raised a brow. “And what would become of you then?”

  Jocelyn had the good grace to cringe at hearing her words thrown back at her.

  “I can go into service.” Calm resignation sounded in Emma’s voice. “I can get a position as a governess.”

  “As can I,” Marianne said firmly.

  Jocelyn cast a pleading glance at the older girls. They nodded in response. Her voice was grim. “I can probably find a husband who doesn’t care about such things as dowries.” She heaved a heartfelt sigh. “The butcher’s son is looking for a wife and seems somewhat taken with me.”

  “Somewhat?” Becky snorted. “But even I wouldn’t encourage that.” She leaned toward Richard. “He has warts.”

  “He’s a very nice young man,” Emma said sharply.

  “If you like warts,” Jocelyn said under her breath.

  Richard studied them for a moment. “And what of you, Becky? What are you willing to do to keep me from the hangman’s noose?”

  “I could marry, I suppose, although in fact I think I’m too young for that. But,” her gaze met his, “we could sell the horse. He’s rather old and tends to be a bit cranky, but we could get something for him …” A wistful note sounded in her voice.

  Richard’s anger dissolved. Aside from Aunt Louella, and she scarcely counted, he was all the family they had left. Apparently they were willing one and all to sacrifice whatever was needed to keep him out of trouble. The knowledge touched something inside him.

  “I am impressed, dear ladies, and I do appreciate your offers, but they are not necessary.” He grinned slowly. “I am doing nothing illegal, illicit, or even immoral. I have become eminently respectable and redeemed my reputation to the point where, if I am anything at all presently, it is simply quite boring.”

  Their expressions didn’t change.

  “Blast it all, what is it now?” Annoyance drew his brows together. “Obviously, there’s more.” Once again the sisters exchanged looks. “Out with it then.”

  “We want to know …” Emma paused as if summoning strength for a question she hated to ask. And feared the answer. “If your money comes from gambling.”

  “Apparently winning occasionally,” Jocelyn said grudgingly.

  “But gaming nonetheless.” Marianne’s gaze was troubled.

  Abruptly any remaining annoyance vanished. He should have known his silence about his activities would arouse suspicion eventually. Certainly, in the first few years the girls had paid no attention to his attempts to juggle creditors in London, and he’d been with them in the country more often than he was in town. It wasn’t until he’d started painting that he’d stayed away from the manor more and more.

  He couldn’t blame them for their fears. They’d grown up with a father whose infrequent visits home had only been to collect yet another family heirloom or valuable to sell and finance his games. On rare occasions, he’d brought token amounts for necessities, but more often than not his return to Shelbrooke Manor had marked the disappearance of treasures rather than the disbursement of funds.

  “The blood of the father in the veins of the son,” Aunt Louella murmured.

  Richard bit back a sharp response. Louella was a termagant, but he could scarcely fault her, either, for her suspicions.

  “I can assure you”—he shot his aunt a pointed glance—“all of you, that I do not frequent the tables and have not set foot in a gaming hell for longer than I can remember.” He grinned wryly and shrugged. “Haven’t the money.”

  The very room itself seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, as if collective breaths had been released.

  “As to what I have been doing,” he directed a firm look toward Emma, “there is nothing wrong with it whatsoever.” His gaze slid to Marianne. “Payment is simply a bit erratic.” He met Jocelyn’s eyes directly. “It is quite respectable. However,” his attention turned to Becky, “circumstances and profitability dictate I keep much about it private. Do you understand?”

  Louella sniffed.

  Emma nodded. “Of course.”

  “Certainly,” Marianne said with a puzzled smile.

  “Well, I don’t understand.” Jocelyn planted her hands on her hips.

  “Neither do I.” Becky mimicked Jocelyn’s actions.

  Richard laughed. “Pity, but you shall have to live with your confusion.” He narrowed his eyes, his lighthearted tone belying the serious nature of his words. “And you shall have to trust me.”

  Emma stepped toward him. “We do, Richard. It was just—”

  “Well, I do.” Marianne returned to her chair and plopped into it, the movement sliding her glasses to the end of her nose. She grinned up at him. “Now I, for one, want to know what you wished to tell us.”

  “Me too.” Becky settled herself on the arm of Marianne’s chair.

  “So do I, I suppose.” Jocelyn flounced across the room and sank down beside her aunt on the settee. “Although I can’t see what could be so fascinating if Richard hasn’t managed to make our fortune yet.”

  Richard suppressed a grin. Jocelyn had a good heart even if she tended to be a bit centered on her own interests. It was Aunt Louella’s fault for all her talk about the past and the days when the Shelton family fortune was unquestioned.

  “Yes, Richard, do tell,” Emma said. “What is it?”

  I have an … acquaintance, a friend actually, who has agreed, for the remainder of the season in London, to take one of you under her wing—”

  “A friend?” Aunt Louella said with a raised brow.

  “Which one of us?” Jocelyn’s eyes widened.

  “A female friend?” Louella’s eyes narrowed.

  “Who is going to London?” Jocelyn jumped to her feet.

  “What kind of female friend?” Louella pressed her lips together tightly.

  Richard directed her a pointed stare. “She is of good family, the daughter of a duke, and a widow. Highly respected, with an unblemished reputation.”

  “Why would someone like that agree to such a thing?” Emma murmured.

  “Perhaps she’s a very good friend.” Marianne’s eyes twinkled. “Perh
aps she’s more than a mere friend.”

  “No doubt.” Louella snorted.

  “Is she, Richard?” Becky jumped to her feet. “Is there more to this than friendship?”

  “Emma’s brows drew together, and she considered him thoughtfully. “One would think there would have to be if she is willing to sponsor a season for one of us.”

  “Who is she sponsoring?” Jocelyn’s voice rose.

  “No, no.” Richard shook his head. “She’s not precisely going to sponsor—”

  “A London season would be rather exciting,” Marianne said wistfully.

  “Emma smiled. “Wouldn’t it?”

  Richard tried again. “Not the entire season—”

  “Balls and routs,” Marianne’s voice was wistful.

  “And masquerades and rides in the park.” Becky wrinkled her nose. “Not that we have anything to wear to such things.”

  “Mother’s old clothes are still in the attic,” Marianne pointed out.

  Emma shook her head. “They are sadly out of style.”

  “But of good quality,” Marianne said. “The fabric should be—”

  “Who cares about the blasted fabric!” Jocelyn stamped her foot. “Who are you taking to London?”

  At once five pairs of eyes pinned him. Regardless of what he said now, there would be disappointment. He drew a steadying breath. “Emma.” “Me?”

  Emma’s eyes widened.

  Richard nodded. “You are the oldest.”

  “But the only true purpose of a season in London is to make a suitable match, and I’m not at all certain I wish to find a husband.” Emma’s shoulders dropped in resignation. “I’m somewhat older than is usual for a first season.”

  “She’s practically on the shelf,” Jocelyn wailed. “A season would be wasted on her.”

  “Nonsense,” Richard said firmly. “Emma has more than earned this opportunity.”

  Emma shook her head. “I daresay I—”

  “No, my dear, you deserve it.” He moved to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, his gaze trapping hers. “Through most of your life you’ve taken the place of parent here. You’ve managed this household in my absence and done it far better than I could have. Now, we have the chance to allow you to at least sample a bit of what would have been your due if life had not turned out as it had.”

  “But I can’t leave the manor.” Indecision sounded in Emma’s voice, and at once Richard knew she did indeed want to go. “Who will—”

  “I will.” Confidence sounded in Marianne’s voice. “I’m perfectly capable of taking your place. After all, you won’t be gone forever.”

  “Unless she finds a husband.” Becky’s grin matched Marianne’s. “A husband with a great fortune preferably.”

  “If the idea is for one of us to make a good match,” Jocelyn said, clasping her hands together and smiling innocently, “perhaps we would be better served by sending someone else.”

  Emma’s eyes flashed with laughter, and Richard held his tongue. Jocelyn’s opinion of herself was no surprise, but what Richard couldn’t understand was why the rest of his sisters didn’t realize they were just as lovely. He stepped away from Emma and considered Jocelyn thoughtfully.

  “Why, you may have something there.” He folded his arms over his chest and drew his brows together. “What would you suggest?”

  “Well, let me think.” Jocelyn’s voice held a current of suppressed excitement, like a rapid stream eager to break through a dam. Richard stifled a grin. “It’s not that Emma isn’t pleasant enough in appearance, but she said it herself.” Her voice dropped as if she were revealing a distressing secret. “She’s really rather old. One-and-twenty.”

  “As old as that,” Richard said solemnly. “Then perhaps Marianne should go?”

  “I’d love to go to London,” Marianne said.

  “Marianne is but a year younger than Emma,” Jocelyn said quickly. “And she’s such a bluestocking, why, she’d scarcely notice if she were here or in London.”

  “I’d notice.” Marianne’s tone was wry.

  That could be a problem.” Richard shook his head and sighed dramatically. “What a pity. Here I have the opportunity to bring one of you to London, yet there seems to be an impediment to everyone I suggest. I don’t imagine you have any way to solve this dilemma?”

  “Me?” Jocelyn’s expression mirrored the feigned surprise in her voice. Becky snickered, and Jocelyn shot her a sharp glance. “I can’t really … I mean I don’t think … well, I suppose I could be prevailed upon to go.”

  “You?” Richard stared as if the idea was completely unexpected.

  ““I’d be willing to do it.” Jocelyn glanced around the room and added quickly, “for the sake of the family, of course.”

  “Of course,” Richard murmured. “How thoughtful of you.”

  “Then, may I go?” she said eagerly. Apparently Jocelyn was the only one present who had no idea her ploy to go to London was futile.

  He smiled pleasantly. “No.”

  Her expression fell. “No? As simple as that? Just no?”

  “Very well,” Richard grinned. “Absolutely not.”

  Frustration colored Joceyln’s face. “Why n—”

  “Because, my dear.” Louella got to her feet. “Emma is the oldest and should have had a season long ago. This arrangement of Richard’s, as precarious as it sounds, is better than nothing at all.”

  Jocelyn huffed. “But it isn’t at all fair. Emma doesn’t even want to go.”

  “In point of fact, I rather like the idea.” Emma’s eyes sparkled, and Richard realized that he, too, had assumed his oldest sister had little desire to go to London. Once again, he was wrong. Apparently he didn’t know women, especially his sisters, as well as he’d always thought he did.

  “Nonetheless.” Louella pinned Jocelyn with a no-nonsense stare. “There will be no more discussion about it. I agree with your brother’s decision.”

  “There is a first for everything,” he said under his breath.

  Louella cast him a sharp glare, then turned her attention to Emma. “Now then, my dear, we must see to your bags. The rest of you can come along and help.” She and the girls started for the door.

  “No more than one bag,” he said. “I don’t plan on taking the carriage, so we shall have to share my horse.”

  Emma stopped, her chin tilted in a stubborn manner. “I will bring my paints, Richard.”

  He groaned. It was a continuing dispute between them. Emma had a fine hand with watercolors, but she longed to work in oils, and that he would not allow. Oils were for professional artists, men intending to sell their work. Watercolors were quite respectable for a proper lady. Even so, he’d prefer she give it up altogether. Regardless of what he did to eke out a living, there was no place in that odd world for his sister.

  “I will not leave them behind.”

  “Very well,” he snapped. “Bring the blasted things.”

  Emma smiled and left the room behind Louella. Marianne and Becky followed, trailed by a sullen Jocelyn.

  “Jocelyn.” He caught her hand and pulled her around to face him. “Do try to understand my reasoning.” “I do,” she sighed.

  “It’s just … have you ever wanted something so badly it hurts?” She gazed up at him with all the intense emotion of youth in her eyes.

  “Perhaps.” His heart went out to her. “I will make you a promise here and now. Should all go as I hope, you will come to London next year and have your season.”

  She studied him for a moment. “Do you mean it?”

  He nodded solemnly. “I do.”

  “And if all doesn’t go as you hope?” She considered him carefully.

  “If it doesn’t …” Richard shrugged in surrender. “I shall still do everything in my power to assure you of a season.”

  She stared in suspicion. “And I have your word?”

  “You do.” He nodded solemnly.

  “Very well then. I shall hold you to it
.” She smiled with satisfaction, swiveled, and swept out of the room.

  He stared after her, his smile fading. Damnation, the last thing he needed was one more practical reason to marry Gillian. No matter what else was at stake, nothing was as important to Jocelyn as a season in London. Now he’d gone and given her his solemn vow.

  And there wasn’t the slightest chance she’d ever let him forget it.

  Chapter 8

  “Then I shall see you tomorrow evening?” Richard held Gillian’s hand and gazed into her eyes.

  “Yes.” In spite of her best efforts, her voice had a disturbing, breathless quality. “As I said, I’ve arranged a small dinner party. I thought it would be best to start with something simple before throwing Emma full tilt into the social whirl of the ton. There is a ball the night after and another—”

  “What of tonight?” Richard’s voice was intense.

  “I am … engaged this evening.” Her first sitting with Toussaint was tonight. His note arranging the details had been delivered by a somewhat grubby boy, according to Wilkins. Now she had no way to reach the artist and rather regretted agreeing to the appointment.

  “Engaged?”

  “Yes.” The heat of his hand crept up her arms and flushed through her body. How could any man have such warm hands? Was the rest of him as warm?

  “Should I be jealous?” A teasing light shone in his eyes.

  “I don’t know. Are you?” She tried to match the lightness of his tone, but somehow her words held a deeper meaning.

  “Always.” He pulled her hand to his mouth and placed a kiss in her palm. Her breath caught. His gaze never left hers. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  “Tomorrow,” she said softly.

  He released her and stepped through the open door. She closed it slowly, turned, and leaned against it, needing support for legs abruptly too weak to hold her upright.

  Richard had left for the country yesterday morning to fetch his sister and had returned late this afternoon. It had been barely two days since she’d last seen him at Lady Forester’s masquerade. Barely two days since they’d spent most of the ball together and she’d laughed more than she’d suspected possible, never imagining she’d enjoy the simple pleasure of any man’s company as much. Barely two days since he’d held her in his arms and danced in a manner at once proper and intimate, charged with emotions she’d never dreamed she’d know again.