The Wager (The Blooms of Norfolk Book 1)

by Angelina Jameson

  He’d succeeded in slipping into the ballroom unannounced, but Lady Cair stood before him now, effectively blocking his view of the lady in green. He ascertained by the glint in the society maven’s eye that she harbored some curiosity as to his sudden appearance.

  “My good friend Ambrose requires my assistance in squiring his sisters,” he said to accelerate the inevitable inquisition.

  “The marquess has managed most of the season without your aid.” Her tone was ironic. Her skeptical smile proved she didn’t believe his excuse one little bit.

  “I have been otherwise occupied.”

  To his relief, the woman’s attention shifted to a large bejeweled matron who stood beside them. He resumed his journey to the brown-eyed goddess, so fixated on his goal he didn’t notice her companion until he stood in front of Ambrose himself.

  His friend performed the introductions. The word ‘sister’ sliced through him. The expression on the goddess’s face changed from interest to regret.

  Chastain knew that despite how exquisite the girl might be she was well and truly out of his reach. There was one set of ladies a gentleman would never toy with: his friend’s sisters.

  He now sat comfortably ensconced in said friend’s country house, having been asked to show attention to a lady who beguiled his every waking moment. Even now he could swear he smelled a hint of the citrus scent she wore which captivated his senses.

  “What boon does he receive from your scheme?” Peake asked, rousing Chastain from his inner musings.

  “Yes, old man, what do I get if I win our bet?” The idea of wooing Iris did appeal to him. His heart would be more than safe. The lady deserved some comeuppance for her indifference to him.

  “The pair of grays I recently purchased at Tattersall’s,” Ambrose replied straightaway.

  “Quite an incentive.” He remained silent a moment. “Simply for making sure Lady Iris falls in love with me?”

  His friend’s expression became as hard as stone. “You will remember she is my sister.”

  “And thus sacred,” Peake said.

  “I will treat her with the utmost respect.” Good heavens, he had just agreed to Ambrose’s absurd plan.

  Ambrose’s brow cleared. “Christmas is on Thursday, three days from now. You and Peake are set to depart on Sunday. If Iris is enamored of you by then, you can have the grays.”

  “How do you wish me to proceed?”

  “Carefully,” the marquess replied with a chuckle. “Iris doesn’t know you very well. What she does know is from reading the newspapers during our time in London.”

  Peake shook his head, his expression mournful. “Not reassuring for a young lady to be courted by the darling of the gossip sheets.”

  “I want my father to see my name in print as much as possible.” Chastain shrugged. “He thinks me a wastrel. I’ll show him a wastrel.”

  “It is now one o’clock,” Ambrose said, glancing at the carriage clock resting on the corner of an oak pedestal desk. “Lottie is undoubtedly in the conservatory or orangery, Rose is scribbling one of her wild stories and Iris will be restless. She will be looking for diversion. That is where you come in, Chastain.”

  Ambrose’s sisters had left London in September. Although Chastain hadn’t seen Iris for over three months she had often been in his thoughts. The chance to spend time with Iris, with her brother’s approval no less, couldn’t be missed.

  He stood up and sketched a bow. “I will find fair lady and join her in a diverting activity.”

  Peake inclined his head toward the door of the room. “I do believe I hear a commotion in the entry hall.”

  “Rose,” Ambrose said with a sigh. “She announces, by one way or another, her presence wherever she goes.”

  Chapter Two

  Iris found Rose in the girl’s bedchamber. Her youngest sister sat cross-legged on her four-poster bed, writing in one of her numerous journals. She hoped Rose would not be averse to leaving her writing behind to venture to Braxton.

  “A lady should sit at a writing table,” she said with a teasing smile.

  “A lady should knock before entering my room,” Rose replied without looking up.

  Ignoring her sister’s comment, she walked to where the girl sat and looked down at the journal in Rose’s lap. “Who is the hero of your story today: a knight in armor or a pirate, perhaps?”

  To her surprise, the younger girl hastily shut the journal she’d been writing in. Rose’s normal ruddy complexion turned a deeper red.

  “I’m not finished with it yet,” Rose replied as she shoved the journal under one of the many pillows grouped behind her.

  Her sister typically jumped at any chance to show her stories to her sisters. At only twelve years, Rose was not yet out and had been more than happy to sit at their town house in London writing whilst her sisters enjoyed the social whirl of the season.

  At least Lottie had enjoyed London.

  As for herself, the first part of the season bored her to tears and the last three weeks had been a trial. Lord Chastain began to appear at every social event the family attended. To her irritation the man was far more handsome and interesting than all the young bucks in London combined.

  The season was nearly over when she met Chastain for the first time. Lady Cair’s ball was a crush. The room felt warm with too many bodies. None of her dance partners were remotely fascinating. She’d felt an invisible tug on the back of her neck and turned her head to see a man who quite literally gave her goose flesh.

  She was considered tall at five feet eight inches. The man looked as if he would tower over her. His dark hair was tousled in the new fashion. His eyes were a light green, the color of Spring grass. He carried himself with assurance. This was no young buck with spotted cheeks who would blush if he asked her to dance. She watched, her heart drumming sharply in her chest, as he navigated a path from where he’d been speaking with Lady Cair to a spot in front of her brother.

  Her elation at finally meeting a man who appeared a cut above the rest turned to disappointment as her brother introduced the handsome gentleman as Lord Chastain, a frequent fixture in the gossip sheets.

  “Lord Chastain is in the papers again,” Lottie said that very afternoon as Iris sat in the parlor of their rented townhouse, attempting interest in her needlework.

  Her eyes on the handkerchief she was stitching, she listened closely to the paragraph the other girl commenced to read aloud.

  “Lord C, often a subject of this column, was seen last evening at the Royal Saloon enjoying the gaming tables. When two women vied for his attention Lord C invited both ladies to sit with him for dinner. Much to the chagrin of many a male present, the gentleman’s dinner companions were the prettiest ladies in attendance.”

  “Gentleman?” Iris blew out a breath. “The man is a known reprobate. His interest in any woman could not be construed in the least as benevolent.”

  “And what do you know of reprobates?” Lottie giggled. “You grew up as cosseted in the country as any young miss.”

  “I know Lord Chastain is a friend of our dear brother and yet Ambrose has not introduced us to him. Such a circumstance should be reason enough to doubt the man’s character.”

  Lottie, true to her nature, wouldn’t be put off by her sister’s negative comments about the man as she chose only to see the good in others.

  “Ambrose has always sorted his life into neat little boxes. We are in one, his friends in another. I think it would be exciting to meet Lord Chastain. He behaves how he wishes and is still accepted in polite society.”

  “The man is a viscount, heir to an earldom, my dear sister,” Iris replied. “The ton will forgive him many things they will not forgive the younger sisters of a marquess. I think it is a shame so many gentlemen of the ton spend their days in worthless pursuits when they are free to do as they wish.”

  “Chastain sounds terribly interesting,” their youngest sister Rose said from her window seat.

  Iris thought the gi
rl too engrossed in writing in her notebook to pay attention to her sisters’ conversation.

  “He is probably misunderstood,” Lottie replied.

  “Oh yes.” Rose smiled widely. “He has been hurt by a woman and only needs to find his true love to settle down and live happily ever after. I shall write a story about him.”

  “What shall you title your story about the poor, misunderstood Lord Chastain?” she asked with a roll of her eyes.

  The younger girl bit her lip and stared into space.

  “The Misunderstood Viscount?” Lottie asked.

  Rose shook her head vigorously. “Not romantic enough.”

  “The Rake Who Really Just Wants Love?” she queried.

  “That is a ghastly title,” Lottie replied with a chuckle.

  “I have it!” Rose’s face wore a triumphant grin as she turned her attention to her sisters. “The Viscount and the Three Sisters.”

  “The Three Sisters.” She frowned. “Do you mean us, pray tell?”

  “Yes, yes,” Rose replied, her eyes bright. “My tale will be all about our adventures with the secretly lonely, secretly misunderstood Lord Chastain.”

  Iris shook herself. She must remember her plan to go to Braxton.

  “I have come to spirit you away to town,” she said to Rose. She would comment no more on her sister’s writing. The girl would soon be out of the schoolroom. Perhaps she wanted more privacy.

  “To buy notebooks?” Rose asked as she slid from the bed and donned her boots. “You promised to share your pin money.”

  “That I did,” she replied and looked with disapproval at the state of her sister’s hair. “Where is your maid?”

  “I sent her to the dungeons.”

  She pursed her lips. Better not to ask Rose where the ‘dungeons’ might be if she wanted to leave for town any time soon. “Sit down and let me sort out your hair.”

  Iris and Lottie were envious of Rose’s curls, something the girl inherited from their father. Although her own hair was straight, Iris also had their father’s dark hair while Lottie inherited their mother’s fair locks. Iris used her fingers to fluff and rearrange Rose’s curls until the girl looked presentable.

  Both sisters wore their usual uniform when residing at Marcourt: walking dresses and serviceable boots.

  “Don’t forget your bonnet and a pelisse.”

  “Shall we walk to town?” Rose asked. She glanced to the window in her room. The curtains were pulled back; the day outside looked sunny.

  A long walk in the chilly air was just the thing to hasten Chastain’s departure from Marcourt. “That should be acceptable. This winter has been the warmest I can remember. Put on your nicest pelisse. We have company in the house. Ambrose would not like to see you looking like a hoyden in front of his friends.”

  Despite muttering ‘hoyden’ under her breath, Iris was relieved to see Rose scoop her bonnet from a dresser and pull a fur-lined pelisse from an armoire before following her sister out of the room.

  Rose skipped quickly, and noisily, down the main staircase. Iris descended at a more sedate pace, wondering if Chastain would still be at leisure in the study.

  “Lord Chastain!” Rose was already several treads below Iris. “My sister and I are going to town for notebooks.”

  “A worthy pursuit,” a warm voice replied.

  Iris paused to grip the handrail tightly. The man’s honeyed tones never ceased to disconcert her. She gathered her wits and continued down the grand staircase. When her feet were firmly planted on the entry hall floor she moved her eyes to the viscount.

  “Lady Iris,” her brother’s friend said with warmth. His light green eyes swiftly took note of her appearance.

  “Lord Chastain,” she replied, her voice high. Neither her brother nor Lord Peake was in sight. Perhaps Lord Chastain had been waiting for her to come downstairs. Was the battle for her heart to begin so soon?

  “Have you ever been to Braxton?” Rose asked the man who occupied too many of Iris’s thoughts these days. The girl’s eager smile made her look far younger than her twelve years.

  Chastain stood not two feet from Rose. He leaned down to reply, “I must admit this is my first trip to Norfolk. I have never had the pleasure of visiting your village. Ambrose describes it as a charming hamlet.”

  Iris held back a snort. Charming hamlet, indeed. In her modest opinion Braxton could very well be the loveliest village in England. From her place a few paces in front of Chastain, her gaze met his. She could see laughter behind his eyes. The man was surely teasing them. She was relieved to see him treat her youngest sister as an equal rather than a nuisance.

  “Please do come with us,” Rose said.

  Chastain’s gaze remained on Iris’s face while he straightened his stance. Since he’d learned she was Ambrose’s sister she couldn’t recall his ever subjecting her to such a lengthy perusal.

  “A ride to town sounds delightful,” the viscount replied, never breaking eye contact. “If your sister doesn’t mind my accompanying you?”

  “You are most welcome to join us, Lord Chastain. We do normally walk to town.” She adopted a bright smile and wondered if he would see the smugness behind it.

  “Walk?” He looked down at his polished boots. He looked up again. The expression on his face appeared to be one of resignation.

  “Braxton is less than a mile from Marcourt,” she said with a hint of challenge. “We understand if you are not used to such exercise.”

  His gaze narrowed as he smiled, if the tight twist of his lips could be termed a smile. “It looks to be nice weather. I believe I should enjoy stretching my legs.”

  Chastain donned his great coat with the assistance of a footman. Iris already wore her own fur-lined pelisse.

  The day remained sunny as their little party descended the front steps of the house and walked along the pebbled path to the main dirt track to Braxton. She was relieved Lord Chastain didn’t offer his arm. They walked side by side, Rose sometimes chatting gaily and other times skipping to the side of the road to observe movement in the row hedges and trees scattered randomly beside the road. A musky scent tickled her nostrils and she wondered if the fragrance came from his shaving soap. It was warm and rich as the honeyed tones of his voice.

  The call of a wren came from close by. As she walked, she wondered how she was to be wooed by the only man she’d met who stirred her mind and her senses. She must remember Lord Chastain’s interest in her was based solely on his desire to win a bet. He must have agreed to the wager to seek her out so soon after the conversation in Ambrose’s study.

  Iris looked about for something to distract her from the realization that it was colder outside than she’d anticipated. Her eyes lit on Lord Chastain’s footwear. The man’s boots were already covered in a light sheen of muddy water.

  “It has rained a lot this month,” she said, her tone bland. Her gloved hands were balled into fists for warmth as there were no pockets in her pelisse. She should have brought a muff with her.

  “That fact is most evident,” Lord Chastain replied somewhat grumpily. “You said the town is situated less than a mile from Marcourt?”

  “It might be closer to two miles,” she replied, attempting to disguise the delight she felt at his irritable response to her statement.

  He met her reply with silence. She felt justified in thinking him a spoiled member of the ton. She hadn’t really expected the man to have more substance, to not flinch at the thought of a long walk. Chastain appeared to relish his reputation as being useless.

  “Personally, I do not care how dirty my boots get. I do however care about my valet who will spend his evening cleaning them.”

  “Oh,” she replied. “I had not thought you would be concerned with a servant’s workload.”

  She could hear Rose humming as blue tits squabbled over their nesting sites in the trees.

  “I believe you disapprove of me, Lady Iris,” the viscount said bluntly.

  She stopped walking,
as did he. They had known each other only a few weeks during the season and had never discussed anything more personal than the weather, London’s entertainment, or food.

  Rose stopped some feet in front of them and looked back. “Is something wrong?”

  “No dear,” she replied, her voice sounding strained to her own ears. She and Chastain resumed walking as Rose continued her pace out front.

  “You have no response, Lady Iris?” His question was asked in a sober tone.

  “Why do you care?” she asked in a whisper, wondering where the words came from. She concentrated on looking where she walked, not ready to meet his eyes. “Excuse my rudeness, Lord Chastain. Your question took me by surprise.”

  “I suppose anyone would wonder what they had done to rouse such dislike in another person,” Chastain replied conversationally.

  What had Lord Chastain ever done to offend her? Many men of society spent their days at one leisurely pursuit or another. It made no sense to her that she took Chastain’s shortcomings to heart.

  “I don’t dislike you,” she said quietly before continuing in a louder voice, “I simply don’t understand you. You covet the reputation of a ne'er-do-well. From what I know of my brother it is hard to believe Ambrose would be your friend if you were a complete bounder.”

  He replied with a low chuckle. She thought she heard relief in the sound. Perhaps he did care what others thought of him.

  “As a woman you need to understand me.”

  “In as much as one person can understand another,” she replied, her words tentative. She glanced at him and saw a smile on his too handsome face. “I am merely a student of human behavior.”

  “And what do you make of my behavior?” he asked, not sounding at all perturbed by their conversation.

  “I haven’t spent much time in your company I admit. Very rarely have we conversed together. Any time I have been in your presence you are perfectly turned out, perfectly gentlemanly and perfectly correct. Not at all as you appear in the gossip sheets.”

  “I see,” her companion replied with a nod, his tone suggesting complete understanding of her complaint.