Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  “Woman.”

  The two, also white-wearing young gossips looked at one another and then back to Prudence in silent confusion.

  “Your mother said no one will wed the Tidemore woman who just made her Come Out.” She gave a toss of her head. The garish strip of lace interwoven with her curls fell limply over her eye, hopelessly ruining that effect. With a snap of her skirts, Prudence stalked off. It really was a good deal less impressive and dramatic when there was no particular someone or someplace to stalk off to.

  “Good God, man. In requesting an introduction to the Duke of Somerset’s daughter, you’ve clearly signaled to all the mamas with matches on their mind that you are in the market for a wife.”

  From where Christian stood alongside the Doric column in the corner of Lord and Lady Drake’s ballroom, he went taut and turned a frown on his friend, the Earl of Maxwell. “That is because I am in the market for a wife,” he stated under his breath, favoring the other man with a glower for chuckling at Christian’s circumstances.

  He’d been compiling a list of all those title-grasping, experienced, not at all innocent women with sizeable wealth attached to them, but hadn’t, as of yet, to his solicitor’s chagrin, settled on the future Marchioness of St. Cyr.

  Yet, interestingly in the Marquess of Drake’s ballroom, he’d not paid a jot of attention to all the respective ladies upon his list. By a rule, he avoided a lady in white skirts. White skirts implied innocence. Innocence required marriage. As such he did not dally with, admire, or so much as speak to those ruffled, more girls than women, ladies who had just made their Come Out.

  But he noticed her. And he’d been noticing her for the better part of the evening. He’d only happened to note her because one of the Marquess of Drake’s liveried footmen bearing a silver tray of champagne stepped directly into his path and inadvertently drew his attention to that ignominious row of wallflowers. Which had drawn his attention to her. He’d finished two glasses of champagne trying to process what was familiar about the hideously ruffled young lady. And then he’d finished another two glasses trying to figure out what it mattered that there was something familiar about the hideously ruffled young lady. Yet staring at her, it was driving him utterly mad.

  “You do realize if you continue to gawk at the wallflowers, it will be whispered that one of those young ladies has snared your attentions and you’ll find yourself truly caught.”

  “Shove off,” he said over the rim of his fifth champagne flute. Still, this time, with the arrival and unerringly accurate observation made by his friend he managed to force his attention away from the young woman. “Don’t you have a widow to seduce?” Except, his gaze wandered back to where she sat tapping her feet to the orchestra’s music. He took in that rhythm. The lady was horribly out of tune. Not at all the kind of beauty who attracted his notice, there was still, well a prettiness to her.

  His friend plucked a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing servant. “And don’t you have a wife to find?”

  That jerked Christian’s attention away from the hideously attired miss and he glowered at his friend. It mattered not that he’d fought alongside this man on the fields of Europe when they’d been more boys than men, what his friend uttered would be ruinous. To both his reputation and his plans for the Season. A wife. He shuddered. Yes, everyone surmised that any gentleman who put in an early appearance in the Season was in the market for a…a…wife. God help him. He downed the contents of his glass in a long, slow swallow that elicited a rumbling laugh from Lord Maxwell.

  “So, is she the one?”

  “Is who the one?” he bit out.

  “The one you’ve settled on for your marchioness.”

  “I have not settled on anyone for my marchioness,” he said from the side of his mouth. For when Maxwell put it that way, it made the truth of his circumstances all the more real and all the more awful and all the more reason he needed more champagne.

  His friend, at least, had sense enough to say nothing else on it. They stood in the kind of companionable silence that could only come from two men who’d stood alongside one another in battle and learned that oftentimes saying nothing was more valuable than filling voids of quiet. Christian motioned over a servant and swapped his empty glass for a blessedly full glass of the marquess’ fine, French champagne. He grimaced. Egads, if that wasn’t a phrase he’d thought he’d ever utter in life: fine, French anything.

  After the days he’d spent on the battlefield, he’d even taken to swearing off French mistresses and courtesans but attending a formal ton event, with the marriage noose hanging over him, well, desperate times called for, at the very least, French champagne. Or brandy. Or some other stiff spirit to distract him from the fact that he was in dun territory.

  The hideously attired lady with an odd strand of lace plastered to her forehead had proven a much welcomed diversion until Maxwell had to go and bloody ruin it. No, there was no reason he should know such a woman.

  The lady flew to her feet, drawing his attention once more. Even with the span of the ballroom separating them, he detected the flash of fire in her eyes as she glowered at the two, wide-eyed young ladies in front of her. At the bold, if peculiar, showing, his interest redoubled and the woman with her impressive fury became somewhat interesting—for a virginal debutante, that was.

  “I daresay it is wise choosing one of those wallflowers. They are the desperate ladies most eager for a match.”

  At his friend’s choice of words, he turned a frown on the other man. “None of those wallflowers have attracted my notice.” Which wasn’t altogether true. One had, but not for the reason of marriage. It had more to do with the spirited young woman’s peculiar behavior. “What in blazes is she on about?” he muttered to himself.

  Maxwell looked about, his brow furrowed. “Who?”

  He ignored Maxwell, as the lady gave a flounce of her curls and sailed away from the row and over to the edge of a Doric column. Christian took another slow sip. He’d already resolved to avoid binding himself to a white skirt-wearing miss. His inevitable bride would be coolly reserved and perfectly content to allow her husband his pleasures, while taking her own pleasure where she would. He’d little use for any other complicated emotion beyond desire.

  So, what in blazes was so intriguing or so blasted familiar about the woman?

  “You can always marry one of my sisters.”

  Now that was an offer born of either true friendship or desperation. “Very generous,” he drawled. After all, what man would gladly turn over the care of his sister to a notorious rogue, who more often than not battled bad dreams and drank too much? “But I will have to pass on one of your, er lovely sisters.” Maxwell had saved his life, quite literally, upon the battlefields of Waterloo several times. He also knew the myths perpetuated about him after that bloody battle. Such a man deserved more for his sister than Christian’s pathetic self.

  Maxwell’s lips ticked up in the corner. “It would spare me the bother of squiring the lot of them about.”

  “You would still have two Seasons to see to. What is one more?”

  His friend snorted. “That is far easier for you to say as the brother of just one of those bothersome creatures.”

  Yes, there was merit to that charge. Christian himself possessed of a single sister, approaching her sixteenth year and inevitably her London Season, did not envy the other man the three he was responsible for wedding off. It was that whole older brother business that made his dire financial circumstances more than a matter of his own material comforts. With a sigh, he ran his gaze over the crowded ballroom. Surely there was a single lady of some experience here, in possession of an immense dowry, a need to wed, and a willingness to overlook a roguish husband in dun territory.

  Unbidden, his gaze wandered over to the young woman. She tipped her head back and forth in a jaunty little manner, in what he suspected was supposed to be in time to the music. He’d wager the little left of the St. Cyr wealth that lady could no
more carry a rhythmic tune than he could carry the Marquess of Drake’s townhouse away from the foundation of its fashionable, Mayfair address. Yet, a sudden, inexplicable urge filled him to stride over and sweep the partnerless lady into the movements of that once-forbidden dance. It really was a crime for a young woman who so clearly loved music to be isolated to the side of the dance floor.

  “Since you do not intend to rise to my bait and instead carry on with your grating silence that would impress a monk,” his friend said dryly at his side, “allow me to supply the identity of the young woman who’s captured your attention.”

  Christian slowly shifted his focus to Maxwell. “She has not captured my attention,” he barked, and then flushed as his unwitting admission earned a chuckle from his friend. “There is however an air of familiarity to the chit,” he conceded. A familiarity, which he could not explain. He took another small sip of champagne, all the while studying her from over the rim.

  “She should look familiar,” Maxwell said with a grin. “You know her.”

  “I know her?” He swung his gaze back to the solitary figure, nodding away. She was just one quick movement from dancing herself off amidst the twirling waltzers. “I assure you, but for my sister, Lucinda, I don’t know a single white skirt-wearing young lady.” It was no effort to inflect the droll amusement into his tone over his friend’s preposterous words.

  “Oh?” Maxwell waggled his brown eyebrows. “Would you care to make a wager?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied with an automaticity that made the other man laugh. He had long been one to take a wager. Even when they proved to be bad ones.

  “A dance with the lady when I prove you incorrect.”

  He hesitated, a frown playing on his lips. There was something underhanded in wagering on a partnerless debutante, and yet staring at her, it really was a travesty that some sod didn’t just dance with the blasted, eager young lady. “What is her name?” he said at last, the urge to know winning out over that slight gentlemanly guilt.

  “Lady Prudence Tidemore. You met the lady in the street two months past when we were on our way to your solicitor’s office.”

  Christian widened his eyes and looked to the young woman once more. That was the lady in the muslin cloak. “By God, you are correct,” he said under his breath, ignoring his friend’s bellowing laughter and the curious stares shot their way. The unchaperoned young woman in a blue muslin cloak that had brought out the piercing blue of her eyes had momentarily stunned him in the streets. Young ladies did not wander the streets of London without an escort and yet, there she’d been.

  Preoccupied by this sudden revelation, Christian frowned and took in the pile of golden ringlets piled atop her head and down her narrow, slender frame to the God-awful, hideous ruffles adorning her dress. This is what the young woman’s mother would put her in? He gave his head a sad shake. What a pity. The eager-eyed lady he’d pulled away from being splashed with grimy water would be better served in shades of green and turquoise like the Caribbean waters.

  “A scandal surrounds the lady’s family.”

  “Oh?” He didn’t give a jot about the whispers of Society’s gossips.

  “An elopement between her eldest sister and a gentleman who she did not find herself wed to,” Maxwell said with a wave of his hand. “The brother, Lord Sinclair married the governess. The scandalous sister wed a marquess at Christmas just months after her failed elopement—”

  “Bloody hell, I hardly need a detailed accounting of the lady’s family,” he groused. Long ago, he’d become one of Society’s favorite figures to whisper about. First as a hero, then as a tattered hero, then as a rogue, and eventually as a gentleman polite mamas should keep their marriageable daughters away from.

  “Yes, I suspect it would not matter much to one who finds himself in your dire financial straits.” He jerked his chin toward the lady in question. “There are certainly worse things than losing a wager to dance with an heiress.”

  Christian clenched and unclenched his jaw. How very mercenary his friend made it all out to be. But then, isn’t that precisely what your intentions are? He’d sacrifice his freedom and integrity to save his mother, Lucy, and servants. But what consolation was that to the poor lady who ended up with him as her spouse?

  Maxwell motioned a servant forward. A liveried footman rushed over with a silver tray and his friend claimed another flute of champagne. “The lady is purported to possess a fat dowry and with her family’s scandal, would be an easy lady for you to claim.”

  He silently cursed and stole a glance about. “By God, have a care man.” He’d not be made into one of those gossiping peers. The title fortune hunter was bad enough.

  “I was merely pointing out that though unappealing to some marriageable misses, others,” he discreetly motioned to the garishly clad lady, “others will not be so particular in matters of your finances. And there is the whole marquisate,” he added almost as though it were an afterthought. “Very nearly a duke.”

  His friend’s nonchalance over his circumstances set his teeth on edge. “I hardly need lessons on the rankings of peers.” He infused a deliberate dryness into his tone. “I am quite aware of the proper ranks.”

  “The set is nearly concluded.”

  Christian looked out to the dance floor. Yes, yes it was.

  “The dance,” his friend reminded him. Of course, Maxwell would not let the matter rest.

  “What d—?”

  Maxwell laughed all the harder. “Oh, you no sooner forgot that set than I forgot the smell of musket fire in battle.” That dark, and always unwelcome remembrance of their youth, drove back some of the lightness of their exchange. He slapped Christian hard on the back. “Go, I am sure there is someone who can coordinate an introduction with the heiress.”

  Christian glowered.

  His friend laughed. “Very well, with the lady. In fact, our hostess is alone with the young woman now. I daresay you can manage a dance before her overprotective mama interrupts your efforts.”

  With a final scowl for his friend, Christian started over to the young woman who had assuredly not captured his attention.

  Chapter 4

  Lesson Four

  Never be afraid to demonstrate your enthusiasm for life…

  It really was a shame that a young lady who so dearly loved the movements of a waltz and quadrille and any and every set should find herself unsquared. That shame was made all the worse by the rather embarrassing fact there was a parade of family members and friends of family members who positioned themselves at Prudence’s side. Likely so she didn’t note the fact that she was one of only a handful of ladies not dancing.

  Which was rather preposterous. One would have to be blinder than a doddering duke with a cracked monocle to fail to note the ridiculous fullness of her ruffled gown.

  At that precise moment, the rescuer of her embarrassingly solitary self was the hostess for the evening’s festivities, the lovely Marchioness of Drake. The small, dark-haired woman stood shoulder-to-shoulder beside Prudence and scanned her gaze over the crush of her guests. “Were you aware that I was a wallflower?”

  At that unexpected pronouncement, Prudence blinked several times in rapid succession.

  As soon as the words left the marchioness’ lips, the happily wedded woman slapped a hand over her mouth. “Not that I was implying you are, in fact, a wallflower. I was merely stating—”

  Prudence smiled her into silence. “You may rest assure you’ve not at all wounded my sensibilities, Lady Drake. I am well aware of my current circumstances.” As though to prove as much, her skin pricked with the attention being trained upon her person by the other wallflowers whom she’d kept company with a short while ago. Before she’d made an indignant, and more importantly, dramatic exit.

  The other woman followed her gaze to the row of mean girls and then an uncharacteristic frown settled on her lips. “I daresay it is a very sad day when wallflowers do not band together and support one another. My
dearest friend Sophie and I met upon that very wall. Well, not that very wall per se, but…” A blush stained her cheeks. “I gather you understand my point.”

  Prudence thought she had, but had lost her way somewhere between the mention of the marchioness’ friend, Lady Waxham, and that unfinished thought. Filled with a restiveness, or mayhap it was more the need for a friend, she clasped her hands. “I do know of your circumstances, my lady, before you were,” in love, blissfully wedded. All those things she herself wished to be. At the woman’s gentle but encouraging look, she cleared her throat and continued. “Before you were wed,” she settled for.

  The other woman angled her head. “Ah, yes, my forever betrothal.”

  An arranged marriage to a handsome marquess, determined to avoid that match. The young lord realizing almost too late his love for Lady Drake and then ultimately in a public showing, declaring his love with great poetry the gentleman had written himself. And that was the extent of her knowledge. “You were merely a wallflower because you already had a husband-in-waiting.”

  A sharp bark of laughter escaped Lady Drake. “A reluctant husband-in-waiting,” she said as her shoulders shook with amusement.

  “Beg pardon,” Prudence said quickly as her cheeks burned with her often too-quick tongue. “Or anyway, that is what my mother said.” Stop talking, Prudence Gwendolyn Tidemore. “Regardless,” she said on a rush, as the young woman’s shoulders quaked with renewed mirth. “I am a wallflower because,” she glanced down at her atrocious dress. “Of these hideous skirts, and my lamentable hair arrangements, and…” She stole a look about, and then dropped her voice to a barely-there whisper. “And because of my sister’s scandal.” Mother insisted not a word be breathed about Patrina’s failed elopement. As though not speaking of it would make that moment in time go away.

  The other woman claimed her hand between hers and held it a moment. “Society has dictates they expect us to follow, but it is important to sometimes take control of your happiness.”