The Stanhope Challenge - Regency Quartet - Four Regency Romances

by Cerise DeLand

  “What in god’s good name is a lady doing out at this hour of the night? And falling in front of my carriage, no less?” His striking eyes went wide as he examined her. He seemed sober, though she could smell faint traces of liquor on his breath. His fingers dug into her upper arms. “Answer me!”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “The devil, you say. Who are you?” He lifted her higher, nearer, his silver-blue eyes searing her face as he scanned her features with a curious hunger.

  “Emma Darling.”

  “Darling…” He caught her cheeks in both hands and turned her more fully toward the light. With his thumbs, he brushed rain drops from her skin and then drew her, inch by inch toward him until her torso was flush against him.

  Fires of delight ran through her blood. He was interested. He might be intrigued. She needed that. Needed more from him.

  He sank his fingers into her newly cropped cap of Grecian curls and turned her face to the left and right. “What the hell? Joan Darling’s girl?”

  “Yes, Frank’s and Joan’s.” Did he know her mother?

  “You’re shivering. Wet as a cat. Sit here.” He pushed her back into the luxury of the squabs, both hands to her shoulders in a move that was mostly a shove. “Take off that cloak.” He worked at a fastening to her wrap. “You’ll die of cold. Your mother will have me for breakfast.”

  “No!” Emma wrapped her hand around his forearm and noted that he was so large she could only partially succeeded. “No, she won’t. Can’t.”

  “What?” He shook his head as he tried to undo the fastening of her wrap. She sat helpless as a child letting him undress her, marvelling at the arch of his cheeks and the perfect sculpt of his sensuous mouth. “This damn thing is too wet. Can’t get it open.” His hands fumbled. “Why can’t your mother help you?”

  “She’s ill. In the country.” Dying from her husband’s cruelty and neglect.

  “Since when?”

  “November, December.”

  He scowled. “That’s why I have not seen her about town.”

  “Listen to me, Jack.”

  If her hands on his hadn’t brought him up short, the use of his given name by a stranger did. He paused, curious now and perhaps even insulted. “You have my attention. What is it you want, Miss Darling?”

  “I need your help.”

  “At three in the morning? A very inclement morning?” He wiggled his black brows in mirth and surprise.

  In the lamplight, his features mellowed with amusement. His brows were long and precise, his eyes large and luminous, his lips full and supple. Generous. Oh, god. Please let him be generous.

  “This was the best time to find you, my lord. You would never have seen me at home. Not mine certainly.”

  “You did not invite me,” he told her, his words a bit slurred, an impish grin gracing his mouth. “I accept all invitations from beautiful women.”

  “So I understand, but—” I am not beautiful. “You would not have come.”

  “You’re certain, eh? Why not?”

  “You do not really know me.”

  He narrowed his starry eyes and let them roam from her lips to her eyes to her hair and back again. “I daresay I should.”

  “Yes, you should.” She leaned forward now, comforted by his humor and the kindness of him to take her in his carriage and have such care of her. But she must look a fright, coming out as she did so quickly, taking the chance she could catch him. “You will. If you accept my offer.”

  “An offer? Pardon me, Miss Darling. It’s late and my manners are as short as my penchant for games.” Bursting into a chuckle, he fell back to the plush leather upholstery. Sobering, he ran a hand over his face. He knit his brows and surveyed her state of cold, wet dishabille. “And you are not amused either. Are you?”

  She shook her head once, her lips pressed together.

  He slapped a hand to his knee. “Very well. I must take you home. Isn’t it Park Lane? Opposite the street from my Aunt Amaryllis Stanhope?”

  She folded her arms, the rain seeping through her cloak to her thin cotton gown and making her shiver. “I will not return there.”

  He cocked his head. “Why ever not?”

  “He is there.”

  Jack scowled. “Who?”

  “Daniel.” She murmured the name of the man who meant to ruin her life, keep her in rags and deny her her due.

  “Your mother’s husband? Pinrose?”

  “The same.”

  He muttered beneath his breath. “Your stepfather.”

  “The same.” Her teeth began to clatter. She clenched her jaw. Wrapped her arms more tightly about her. “He is a tyrant. I have come to you to escape him.”

  Jack winced, glanced out the window and focused on her again. “Escape Pinrose?”

  “Precisely.” She sneezed.

  He picked up the plaid woolen blanket on the seat next to her and tucked it around her body and under her chin. “Christ, you’re cold as ice. How long have you been out in this?”

  “Since ten or so,” she told him.

  “Good god. Must be a damned good reason to chill yourself to the quick. What is it?”

  She shot forward and grabbed the lapels of his coat. “Jack, please help me. I have waited for you because I need you. Only you can help me.”

  He arched a long black brow at her. “I am honored, Miss Darling, but—”

  “Emma.”

  “Emma, my dear young woman, I have no idea what you wish. I barely know who you are, let alone what I might do to assist—”

  “Marry me.”

  He stilled. “Did you say…?”

  “Marry me.”

  Emotions floated across his features. Hilarity. Disbelief. Curiosity. Compassion.

  “You think I am a madwoman, I know. I know.” She tightened her grip on his lapels. “Hear me out. I am twenty-four. Unwed. On the shelf. But once I was lovely and wanted. My stepfather saw to it that any suitor was deterred. One was chased away, another bought off. The first one loved me, I believe.” She suppressed all tendencies to tears. “Now Daniel has arranged a new marriage to a man I loathe. I refused. Daniel locked me away. Only tonight have I had the opportunity to escape him. My maid helped. My coachman, too. They defied Pinrose and aided me because I told them I would come to you. They said if anyone could save me, it was you. Please, my lord, you must help me.”

  Her voice drifted away on a wave of her own despair.

  Jack flinched. Women in full cry of emotion were creatures he knew not how to handle. Women in mourning. Women in terror. Women in love. All tried his soul. Only women in bed appealed to his sense and his senses. This Emma Darling appealed to something else in him. Sympathy. A unique emotion for a man of the ton. A man of means and family, never caught by a passing whim or caring concern, save for his siblings. How could he possibly care for this red-haired siren in wet threadbare cotton and wool? Only because Pinrose abuses her? Perhaps. Whatever the source of his compassion, her story filled him with alarm.

  Fool.

  But a fool who had to know more. “What is the problem only I might solve at this hour of the morning?”

  “Marry me. Quickly. I must have your protection.”

  “Mine? Is that so?” Why mine? Did Pinrose send you? The blackguard would stoop to anything! Four years ago, he’d robbed Jack’s best friend of a fortune cheating at cards. Months later, the poor man had subsequently hung himself in his rooms by the docks. Jack knew Pinrose had done many things to put his hands on money that never seemed to be his own. And Jack had said so often in public to friends and acquaintances alike. For the accusation, Pinrose had blustered that he’d call Jack out, but had never had the guts to bare a sword against one so expert. The man had the spine of a jellyfish, picking on others less cunning than he. Would Pinrose use his stepdaughter to try to cast a scandal upon the Stanhope name? Of course, he would. “Tell me why you think I am your only hope?”

  “No one else will do. Your accusatio
ns that he caused the death of William DeForest make you my stepfather’s enemy, bar none. And you are right. My stepfather is a cad of the first order. He will take from anyone. By gambling or libel. When he sees an opportunity, he takes it. But you are perfect for me because no one else has declared Daniel as unprincipled as loudly or as often as you.”

  Intriguing. Yet hardly a reason to marry. Jack shifted in his seat. He was comforted by her rush of logic but reassured of her veracity by the fervor of her words. “Well, Miss Darling, let me point out a few facts to you. Even if I were so charmed as to consider wedded bliss to an utter stranger a possibility, I could not find a man of the cloth to join us at this hour in a driving rainstorm. Nor could I proceed without a license.”

  “We’ll go to Gretna Green.”

  “The border? For a quick march around an anvil?”

  “An anvil?”

  “Anyone, most likely the village smithy, says a few words to the couple over his anvil!”

  “Not a vicar?” Her perfect oval face became a mask of horror.

  Sorry for her, he explained, “Never. A quick wedding in Gretna requires more trust than reverence for God.”

  “Well, I’d like a minister,” she affirmed, then quick as a sprite, dug into her coat pocket and hoisted a small golden money pouch. She jingled it before him. “Silver. For you. Enough to pay our way to a vicar and back to your home in Durham.”

  A hand up in refusal of her payment, he let loose with a laugh. “My dear, the silver coins are a fine entreaty but money cannot buy you a husband.”

  “I wager you it can.” She opened his palm and dropped her bag into it. “If you help me, there’s more, much more than that for you.”

  He weighed it. Heavy. Impressive. But he did not need this. Or want it. And certainly he did not want her trouble. He always had enough of his own. Sometimes more than others. Like now. “No. I do not intend to marry. For silver or gold.”

  “Never?” She fluttered those damn long, red lashes of hers, flummoxed by his response.

  He used his stock answer for her. It always worked with dewy-eyed maidens. “The family curse precludes any happiness in a union. I see my two brothers have so far skirted it, but tomorrow comes and brings untold miseries.”

  She waved a hand at him, falling back to his cushions, a smile on her face. “A curse! Ridiculous. What import is that when people have real problems?”

  “How true!” He chuckled. What the hell was he doing talking about the Stanhope challenge to a strange young creature with shabby clothes and the most angelic face he’d ever seen? Device, perhaps it was, to escape the real reasons for not marrying, but the family’s cursed affliction had worked its magic to delay conjugal horrors in his life. “You’d know the thing was real if you had been told the tales I’ve heard. No lasting union comes to any in the Stanhope clan. Especially if they care for each other.”

  She scooted forward, her incomparable large, grey gaze caressing his in fevered glee. “Then have no fear, my lord. On those two counts, you can certainly marry me.”

  “How so?” Jack had enjoyed proposals from two other ladies in his youth and their reasons always did fascinate him, especially when they informed him that they would enthrall him. “Are you a fortune teller?” With all those horrible clothes, wild, bright hair and innocent doe’s eyes?

  “Of course not. You see, you and I will never care for each other.”

  That struck him to the quick. He crossed one knee over the other in a nonchalance he feigned. “I see. And the second reason?”

  “I do not want you forever and ever.”

  Her decision that she would never care for him was a small prick to his pride. He’d never had a woman discount him. His station as a peer of the realm and his wealth meant too many fluttered about him in a marital heat. But this woman’s rejection felt like a slap. He sought to cover his dejection with wry savoir faire. “Now that’s a new wrinkle! Do tell me why.”

  “I want you to marry me and take me away to your home in Durham. For only three months.”

  “Three—?”

  “Months. Enough time to satisfy my father’s will to gain my inheritance. Enough to convince my stepfather that you and I are committed.”

  “To Bedlam, I daresay,” he murmured.

  “Don’t say that or think it! To be imprisoned since my birthday last December has been hideous enough.”

  “Wait. What?” Jack sat forward.

  “Pinrose locked me away.”

  The ghoul. “Why?”

  “He has designs on my inheritance. But if you married me and claimed me for your wife for three months, this would do to satisfy my father’s will. Then, his solicitor, Jared Draycomb, would free me of Daniel’s power. Three months with you would prove I am healthy of body and mind.”

  This was preposterous. Who did this in this day and age? Are we not civilized? “Are you saying Pinrose accuses you of—?”

  “Infirmities of mind. Yes. But three months with you and the ton would conclude you would never harbor a crazy woman in your midst. Then I would be able to go to Mr. Draycomb to proceed with the distribution of the Darling estate. Draycomb and Sons would have to give me my inheritance, even though I am wed to you and not Benjamin Trayne.”

  Like a damn snake, that man’s name brought a portent of evil slithering up Jack’s back. To have Daniel Pinrose acting against this sylph-like creature was one hideous thing. But for Trayne to be pitted against her, too, was nigh unto criminal. A cheat at cards and a cad, Trayne had ruined more than one good woman by his seduction. “Pinrose keeps your inheritance from you and wants you to marry Trayne as well?”

  “He does.” She bit her lower lip and considered her hands in her lap. “For my refusal, he locked me in my rooms on my last birthday.”

  Jack muttered a vengeance on the cur. “Why then?”

  “Since I turned twenty-four and therefore, came of age to inherit.”

  Reaching over, Jack lifted her chin with two fingers. Her skin was sallow, her eyes rimmed red from crying. Her perfect skin—save for the sprinkle of freckles on her upturned nose—needed the glory of the sun to enliven it. Her large eyes—almond shaped and dulcet grey as a porcelain doll’s—needed to clear. Her lush lips needed once more to curve upwards in a smile. Jack felt the urge to help her feel joy once more. “And Daniel insists you marry?”

  “He and Trayne have an agreement to split the proceeds of the estate. I overheard them talk of it in our own parlor. When I confronted Daniel, he locked me away. I must have what is due me, Jack. I need it.”

  He had just enough alcoholic glow left from his liberal consumption of brandy tonight that he could smile at her intensity. “What would a lovely young lady do with the thousands reputed to be left to you, my dear Miss Darling?”

  Her mouth lifted with some rapturous thought and he nearly lost all his teeth gaping at the serenity that overcame her. “I want to build an orphanage in Dover, and I need the money for beds and linens and books and food. Two staff, I think would do for a start. If at first I take in only the most needy children in Dover, I would have ten, maybe eleven orphans—”

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Jack put up a hand. “You want your money to open an orphanage?”

  She nodded. “It is a useful thing. A helpful thing to educate and clothe those for whom no one cares. Don’t you think?”

  “Oh, I do. But why you?”

  “Why not me?”

  “You have me there.” Suddenly, he had to know the other side of this offer. “Have you made this proposition to other men?”

  “No!” Her grey eyes locked on his in dismay. “You are the only man who can help me.”

  Jack could have been complimented. But his reputation had never been one that invited damsels in distress to run to him. In fact, for well-borne women, the other direction was their wont. “And the reason for that is?”

  “It is said by gossips that no man bests you. At cards or dice. Or women.”

  “Then there is y
our mother.” He chose to react to Emma’s train of logic rather than any pride in a back-handed compliment. He had met Joan Darling years ago. She was a vain woman, frail of body and flighty of mind. Intent on social engagements and fripperies, she was a social magpie whose discourse he had always avoided. Still, he knew not what sort of mother she was and offending her daughter as she shivered here before him would not be a kind act. “What does she say of me?”

  “She cannot say anything. She is ill. At home in the country. Since Christmas, her health has declined. I fear she will not survive until this summer.” Emma cupped her hand to her mouth. She fought back tears. Then tossing back her sorrow and her curls, she threw him a defiant look. “Marry me, Jack. You are my finest hope. And when I have my inheritance settled on me, for your help I will give you half.”

  “Half!” Half of a reputed forty thousand pounds and two estates fit for a king. Not bad. Still. Was he a cretin to consider this? “Tempting.”

  She beamed at him.

  He frowned. He might be foxed. He might be hallucinating. But he studied her. The beauty. The determination. The desperation. He’d done little for others out of the goodness of his heart. He had friends who rarely needed money. He had more who needed their reputations polished–and no one had ever sought him out for that.

  “Please,” she whispered, her knuckles white with urgency. When had a woman ever approached him to save her life?

  And that was what her offer was. Devil take her bag of silver and half her inheritance.

  “Temptation to help you, my dear, comes not from this offer of money.” That he did not need. The lure came from the way she looked and the way she beseeched him. Dire. Sad. Desperate. Yes, her state roiled him. For he knew Pinrose from his financial schemes and from his losses at the gaming tables. A conniving little frog. And Jack knew Benjamin Trayne from Eton. A pompous peacock. Forever in debt.

  She sat ramrod straight, her silver eyes glistening in the lamplight. “Name your price then.”