A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle

by Catherine Gayle

  Now, if only the music would come to a close.

  Only a few (admittedly silent and uncomfortable) moments later, his prayers were answered as the quadrille trilled to a finish. Peter scanned the walls and found Lady Oldham right where they had left her. He escorted Lady Helene back to the marchioness’s side, trying not to make his rush to be rid of her overtly obvious.

  “Thank you, my lady,” he said as he bowed to them both. “It was a pleasure.” He pleaded with God not to smite him down on the spot for such an outright lie.

  They merely nodded, Lady Helene with a look of displeasure floating in her eyes, so he made his escape and searched for Miss Matthews. Their waltz was next.

  And from the state of his stomach, he was fairly certain it must also be the dinner dance. Even better.

  She stood across the ballroom, near an alcove that jutted out toward the gardens, surrounded by his entire family—or at least, all the members of his family who were present for the ball. Her smile was radiant, and it quickly spread to all around her.

  Montague, a widower seeking a new bride to care for his two small children—and a rather eligible one, at that, being a wealthy viscount with multiple country estates spread through the kingdom—had just made his way over to their group before Peter arrived.

  Deuce take it, the man would be a good match for Miss Matthews. Not only that, but she would likely be just the type of female he would seek out. A touch older than a typical debutante. Familiar and comfortable with country life. Bubbly and vivacious. Good with children. Brave, even if a touch foolhardy.

  Evidently, Montague agreed with his assessment. By the time Peter arrived at their group, Montague was saying, “Miss Matthews, I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask you to waltz with me. If, of course, you haven’t already promised your hand to another.”

  “She has,” Peter said, a bit more abrupt and menacing than he intended. “Miss Matthews will waltz with me this set.”

  The woman in question scowled at him for the briefest moment—so short a time, in fact, that Peter was sure no one else had noticed her reaction. It was intended solely for his eyes.

  “That is true, Lord Montague,” Miss Matthews said, with a hint of both consolation and aggravation in her tone. “However, if you can wait until the next waltz—the first after dinner—I would be most happy to oblige.”

  “I’ll await my turn with much anticipation, then, ma’am.”

  Peter felt an intense desire to plant the man a facer for some undefined reason. Surely he was not jealous of the man. Envy over Miss Matthews? For what reason? The thought was ludicrous—almost laughable.

  Almost.

  But the fact remained that Peter was drawn to this woman, even if he had no understanding of why such a thing should be.

  He must be suffering from an acute case of misguided lust. Nothing else could explain the sudden need to take her into his arms and whisk her away from any other man.

  Finally, after what seemed ages but was likely only a moment or two, Montague inclined his head, first to Miss Matthews and the other females, then to Peter, and then he backed away.

  At last, he could touch her again without worrying about who might see. He could hold her close and smell the faint hint of peaches and woman that followed her about, wafting in her path, leaving him aching to taste.

  It would be thirty minutes of torture and pleasure, all combined in one thoroughly aggravating woman.

  He held out a hand to her, ignoring his mother, sisters, and brother, and focusing only on her. “I believe this is my dance.”

  She hesitated for the briefest moment, but long enough that he worried she would change her mind and refuse him. Which, he must admit, she quite possibly could do—he often thought she loved to goad him as much as he enjoyed pricking at her temper.

  But she placed her hand in the crook of his arm and allowed him to escort her to their place on the dance floor. Something twinkled in her eyes, lending them a sense of mischief.

  A very intriguing, even intoxicating mischief.

  He took her into his arms with neither saying a word, and the music began. They swirled about the room, and everything but the two of them and that moment faded into the background.

  ~ * ~

  “You waltz very well, Your Grace.” Jane’s heart beat a frantic pace as they traversed the ballroom. Between the music and the proximity of him, she had somehow lost control over her body’s reactions.

  “Peter,” he said quietly. That odd look was back in his eyes—the look he’d been giving her since the concert a few evenings before. “Call me Peter.”

  “All right. You waltz very well, Peter. It surprises me a bit since it is rather a new dance, and your sisters tell me you haven’t been to many balls in recent years.”

  Everything between them had been odd since that night, in fact. He had kept his promise—or had it been a threat?—of staying close to her. But the animosity between them had settled, at least for the most part.

  Instead, a new tension existed. No—she had better be out with the truth of it. She was only lying to herself. This tension wasn’t new. Far from it, in fact. It had been there since the very first ball of the Season. Ever since he had kissed her in the gardens.

  Only now, it had intensified.

  When they were in each other’s presence, heat radiated between them and threatened to burn her at the core. She had the simultaneous desires in his presence to run as far from him as possible and to get as near as possible. The two ideas constantly warred with each other to dominate.

  Right this moment, in fact, this tension took on new proportions. There was something about their nearness as they waltzed, with his arm about her waist and his hand holding her hand—with their bodies brushing against each other, his hard planes and angles firm against her softer, smoother curves.

  It was a miracle she could breathe.

  Then he laughed at her with his eyes. That joy in his eyes was such a lovely change from the hard, cold look they so often held when he looked upon her.

  But, oh dear, she must have been woolgathering. Drat, why could she not keep her head about her when she was with him?

  “I apologize. What did you say?” Heat rose in Jane’s face, and she had absolutely no means to stop it. “I was woolgathering, I suppose.”

  “I can see that.” He grinned, a wolfish, amused sort of grin with a sparkle in his eye. “I said that my sisters are correct. Since Mary passed, I have rarely gone to balls other than when Mama has dragged me. Until this Season, that is.”

  “Mary was your wife? Sarah and Joshua’s mother?” Such a very sad thing for those children to lose their mother while they were still so young. Jane had grown quite fond of them in her time in London—Sarah, in particular. The little girl was a treasure.

  “Yes. She was my duchess.” Peter’s eyes lost their laughter, and she longed for it to return.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Even his arms had tightened about her a little. “You must have loved her very much.”

  His eyes became vacant, a bit distant. Cold. “No. We didn’t have a love match.”

  “Oh.” Jane looked away. What else could she say?

  “We married out of...out of necessity.”

  “She was with child?” Jane bit down on her lip and fought to hide the shock from her face, though it was a hopeless cause.

  “No. Not with child. But she faced ruin.” Peter’s face had blackened with anger.

  She wanted desperately to change the subject to something happier, something less painful for him. Her curiosity, however, threatened to eat at her until she discovered the part of the story left untold. Peter—the perfect, unfailing duke who never did anything improper—had caused his wife’s ruin and was forced into a loveless marriage in order to protect her?

  Surely Sophie would know the details, so Jane only said, “Oh.” No need to disturb him further when she had other sources to ease her curiosity. Now she merely needed to cont
ain it until she could corner her friend and wheedle her for everything she knew.

  Several moments passed with neither speaking again, before Peter asked, “And where did you learn to dance, Miss Matthews?”

  “Jane.” If she could lose the formality with him, he should do the same. “I learned at home in Whitstable. We had some community gatherings with dancing and games and the like. Or occasionally, Lady Hinkley invited me to accompany her and her daughters to an entertainment in Canterbury or some other nearby village.”

  “You are friendly with a Viscount Hinkley’s family? I would imagine very few peers live near Whitstable.” Some of the anger had finally begun to dissipate from his face and he relaxed a bit against her.

  “Yes. Lord and Lady Hinkley allowed me to do a great deal with their daughters as we grew up. I even took lessons from their governess alongside them.”

  He lifted a brow. “That was very generous of them.”

  “I paid my own way. It was not charity.” She bristled at the defensive sound of her own words.

  “I never assumed otherwise. And how, pray tell, did you afford to pay for your lessons? I imagine, based on the expense of my sisters’ governess, it would be difficult for a country vicar’s daughter to manage.”

  Could he truly be interested?

  But there was nothing he could gain from such knowledge. No reason for him to ask other than his own interest or perhaps a healthy dose of curiosity. She might as well tell him, since no harm could come from it. “I sewed.”

  “Sewed? Well, of course. I assume it would be imperative for ladies of the gentry to have such a skill. But really, how could you afford an education through sewing for your family?”

  “Well, that would be quite a feat, wouldn’t it?” She laughed at the impossibility of the thought. “But I sewed for far more than only my family. Lady Hinkley hired me to sew garments for her and her daughters, since we lived so far from London and the modistes here. I sewed for Mrs. Zachariah once her arthritis became too painful for her to handle the needle and thread. Before long, word of my skills spread through the village and I had developed quite a patronage for my sewing.”

  “You are rather skilled with your needles, then. But if you have such talent, why on earth did you arrive in London in those...er...well, those rags?”

  Jane grinned. “You may have noticed that Mr. Cuddlesworth tends to pull at my clothing with his claws. He doesn’t mean to be destructive—not truly—but it’s simply how he is.”

  Peter’s jaw dropped a bit over that statement. “Your cat? You claim to know what your cat intends to do and what he doesn’t?”

  “Of course.” Good grief, Mr. Cuddlesworth had been with her for years. She’d be a truly poor companion for him if she didn’t understand him by now.

  “But it’s an animal. It can’t speak.”

  “Of course he can’t speak. But he lets me know what he’s thinking and feeling—what he likes and dislikes.” How obtuse could the man be?

  “I see.” The furrow of his brow told her the opposite of his words, but she decided to let that pass. At least for now. “But back to your sewing—after you completed your education, did you continue to sew for the ladies?”

  “Of course, I did. The ladies in Whitstable still needed gowns. None of that changed just because I’d finished with my schooling.”

  Peter narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “So what’s happened to the money you earned from that work? Have you used it to help your family? I imagine a vicarage in such a small village must find ways to stretch his income a great deal.”

  And just why was he so curious about that, all of a sudden? Her money was her own. A duke certainly had no need for it, not with his abundance of estates earning him more money than a man could ever use in his lifetime.

  Jane shook her head to clear the suspicions from her thoughts. Really, there was no reason not to tell him. She needed to stop being so distrustful. “Papa would never allow me to use my money for family expenses. I’ve been saving my income for several years now…setting it aside, should I need it.”

  “That sum could provide you with a respectable dowry now, if you chose to use it as such.”

  Jane frowned at him. “That it could,” she murmured. Was he trying to get her to offer it for a dowry? Would he rescind the offer he’d made to her suitors for a dowry and insist she use her own monies? And for what purpose? Perhaps his efforts these last few days at keeping her under a short rein were for some purpose other than what he suggested.

  Still, maybe there was a suitor who’d spoken to him and Peter was attempting to protect her reputation from any of her usual social blunders.

  Oh, drat. Thankfully, the appointment Sophie arranged for Jane with a solicitor was only two days away. She would finally be able to make some headway on setting up her shop.

  “Well, there will be no need for that now, Jane,” he said, a curious expression dusting his brow.

  “No.” If only she understood what that meant. Good Lord, she wished she knew what the man was thinking.

  But then the music came to an end, and the dancing stopped. He placed her hand in the crook of his arm and led her from the floor in the direction of the dining room. “I believe supper is served.”

  “Indeed.”

  The next day couldn’t arrive soon enough. Jane wanted more than ever to get to work. One meal seated next to Peter wouldn’t kill her.

  She hoped.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning, Peter awoke with a smile.

  It might have been due to having spent a pleasant waltz and supper with Jane last night. Or perhaps it was because he had succeeded in yet again avoiding a dance—or even a conversation—with Lady Broederlet, who had been chasing after him about the entire Season instead of spending time with her husband. Possibly it was because he intended to have a picnic with his family in the gardens behind Hardwicke House early that afternoon to celebrate Joshua’s birthday. Even Jane would be there, and likely her silly cat as well.

  Any way he looked at it, Peter would have a perfect day today. He was determined to enjoy himself, even if Mama started in on him again about finding a woman to take to wife. No one would spoil his mood.

  When he passed by the breakfast room on his way to his library, he did so with this very determination at the forefront of his mind and a smile on his face.

  Until his mother called out to him from the breakfast room with: “Oh, Peter? You remember we’ve agreed to an evening at Vauxhall tonight with Lady Veazey, don’t you?” She gave him a rather pointed, do-not-dare-to-come-up-with-an-excuse look over her cup of morning chocolate. “It’s to be a small gathering—only a few guests. We do not wish to disappoint.”

  It was just his luck that he had forgotten. However, not even this would dampen his good mood. Not today.

  “Of course I’ll be there. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.” Blast. That last bit was likely a touch too much, since she clearly believed he’d forgotten or else she wouldn’t have reminded him in such a manner.

  Mama didn’t give his little slip any moment, though, and turned to admonish one of his sisters for some unknown offense. Peter took that opportunity to sneak out of sight and get to work before the picnic.

  Yeats had sent him home with a report from Carreg Mawr the day before, and Peter wanted to see what it had to say.

  When “A breakfast tray in my library,” Peter said as he passed Spenser in the halls. “With coffee. As soon as possible, please.” He waited only for the incline of his butler’s head before barreling through the doors to his library.

  Sparing not a moment, he grabbed the report from the bookshelf—the one designated for work yet to be done (which, he was proud to note, was much less full than any other shelf in his library)—and settled in at his desk.

  He pulled the papers out and began to read.

  And read.

  And still read some more.

  After finishing the entire stack, Peter cursed al
oud. “Deuce take it, Phinny.” Why had he been so blind? And how long had it been going on under his nose?

  One thing was certain. The next time he saw Utley, he would be hard-pressed to refrain from planting the bastard a facer, if not strangling him. Phineas Turnpenny had certainly not acted alone.

  ~ * ~

  Six-year-old Joshua, Peter’s heir and the reason for the day’s celebratory picnic, flailed himself across the lawns with his almost-four-year-old sister Sarah following as close behind as her legs would carry her.

  The orange cat, which Peter rarely saw anywhere other than either firmly attached to Jane or fast asleep in its ratty basket, was chasing behind the children, Sarah in particular, and largely ignoring the rather-less-than-exciting adults seated on blankets beneath trees. The animal was unexpectedly agile and lithe, considering that Peter had rarely seen it move, other than the day it had arrived with Jane and nearly mauled his daughter.

  The cat’s fascination with Sarah—and likewise Sarah’s fascination with the cat—had only grown since that first day. From Sarah’s recounting, “Mr. Cuddlesworth” often took naps with the children in the nursery both when they were napping and while they played.

  He sighed as he watched his daughter collapse atop his son, and then the cat atop them both, eliciting the usual peal of giggles that only a little girl can produce. Having a cat in the house for a pet, he had to admit, had not turned out to be the worst thing Peter could imagine. It seemed none-too-inclined to bother him at all, and had left no permanent marks on either child.

  And the joy on Sarah’s face when she was near the animal certainly made up for the misgivings Peter initially held about allowing it into his home.

  His mother interrupted his pensive mood. “Such a lovely day we’re having today, with no rain. I do hope we are as lucky this evening to have such favorable weather. Vauxhall is lovely any time, but how could we enjoy the fireworks and explore the walkways if it rains on us?”