by Amy Jarecki
Fletcher headed for the stairs. “Please tell the valet to draw a bath.”
“Straightaway.” Smith bowed. “Will you be going out as planned this evening?”
“Unless you have found a harem of women to occupy the second floor, yes.”
The butler chuckled. “I shall never grow tired of your humor, Your Grace. I could predict your father’s every word but, if you don’t mind my saying, your clever wit surprises me each and every day.”
The irony? Fletcher wasn’t joking. He might have a title, but he’d been born a bastard and would always remain a bastard.
Chapter Two
“IF YOU TUG ON THE STRINGS one more time, I am sure to expire.” Georgiana clung to the bedpost, convinced the lady’s maid tying her stays was a sadist. Did the woman haul buckets of water all day to acquire such inhuman strength?
Ignoring Georgiana’s complaint, the maid gave another breath-defying tug. “Nearly done.”
“Do not listen to her,” said Mother, sitting beneath the curtains of the Grecian settee recessed into the window. The perfect baroness, Georgiana considered sending for an artist to paint a rendering right there. If only she could afford to pay an artist. It had taken nearly every last penny of her meager income to have the fire engine hauled to London.
“I for one am quite fond of breathing,” she said, trying to inhale. “Besides, I do not see why you insist on dragging me along to this ball. You know I am a hopeless dancer. Even when I was a debutante, my lack of grace outshone everyone else.”
“I am not dragging you anywhere. I am escorting you to Almacks at long last so that you may discard your notion of selling Daniel’s ill-begotten machine and find happiness for once in your life.”
“I was happy.”
“You married a pauper and see what that got you. Not to mention he squandered your dowry on that enormous eyesore. And then he...” Mother pursed her lips. Thank heavens she didn’t say it. The truth was unbearable without being uttered.
Georgiana still relived the accident every time she closed her eyes—the eerie sound of the chain being stretched to its capacity—the sight of the cast-iron cylinder dropping.
“Are you unwell?” asked the maid.
Snapping back to the present, Georgiana straightened. “I have no idea how I’ll endure the night being laced so tightly.”
Mama unfurled her fan and cooled her face. “Stays always feel too tight until you move around a bit. By the end of the evening, you’ll hardly know they’re there.”
The maid held up a new gown of lavender tulle over ivory India muslin trimmed with lace. “This is lovely, my lady.”
“It is.” Mother continued to flutter her fan. “And that is because my daughter allowed me to choose her modiste as well as her fabrics.”
Georgiana rolled her eyes as the dress slipped over her head.
“And not a word of thanks?” The baroness sighed loudly. “It is well past time you cast aside those dreary mourning clothes and dress yourself in some color. You look ever so lovely in pastels.”
“She does at that,” said the maid, lacing up the gown’s rear seam.
“I’m must admit that since you were measured, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you an entire new wardrobe.” Mother snapped her fan closed. “You may thank me now, dearest.”
Georgiana swallowed her urge to groan. Mother had exquisite taste, but black suited her daughter—at least it suited her mood. “Thank you. If only you were willing to help me find a financier for the steam pumper or introduce me to a few gentlemen who might be interested in placing an order or two I would be ecstatically grateful.”
“I’d rather introduce you to a plethora of gentlemen who are able to support you in fine style for the rest of your days.”
A sudden stabbing needled Georgiana’s neck. “I do not need another husband, Mama.”
“No? I disagree. I do worry about you out there in the country living in that hovel. It just isn’t natural.”
“Plenty of country women live in hovels.”
“Not well-born daughters of barons.”
“I suppose I am the exception, then.”
“And you will be the death of me.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” At least it was likely dear Mama would not be crushed by a steam engine’s cylinder.
Mother rested her elbow on the velvet cushion. “You were rather quiet when you returned from today’s exhibition. I gather it didn’t go as you’d hoped?”
Georgiana turned her back and busied herself straightening the tortoiseshell brush, comb and mirror on the toilette. “Not exactly. But I’ll be better prepared next time.”
“Hmm. Well, at least you’ll be staying on with us in London, and I do like that. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to have you here to flit about Town with.”
“Yes, Mama. But remember, I am six and twenty. Do not fill your head with ideas of parading me about the ton like a debutante.”
Their agreement had been for Georgiana to accompany her mother to all manner of the Season’s functions in exchange for room, board, and especially the storage of—in her father’s words—the hulking, useless heap of iron. However, at every opportunity, she made it imminently clear she did not have an iota of interest in being flaunted about the marriage mart.
Still, Georgiana couldn’t fault her parents for trying. During her one and only Season, she had hopelessly fallen in love with Daniel and had refused all other offers. The problem was she still loved him. And now that he was gone, she wanted to do everything in her power to see that his brilliance lived on through the legacy of the Whiteside steam pumper.
Yes, she’d been vague about the day’s disaster because her parents cared not about her disappointment. Besides, what if she slipped and told them about the dousing incident with the Duke of Evesham? Mother would insist on a formal apology. Groveling most certainly would be involved. And then they’d all conspire against her. Papa’s words rattled in her mind now: “A woman your age should be bustling about her home, fussing over children and menus, planning soirees, embroidering beautiful seat cushions and, most of all, keeping well away from anything mechanical.”
IF THERE WAS ONE THING Fletcher disliked more than chatty debutantes, it was their chatty mothers. And Mrs. Finch had three daughters for whom she was seeking husbands, which made the woman prattle ad nauseum. Worse, in her desperation, she was gripping his arm so tightly his fingers were growing numb. Poor woman, if only she knew what he really thought of her unseemly brood, she’d never speak to him again. Though such an idea had its merits, deep down Fletcher pitied her plight. It wasn’t easy for widows left behind with children or any woman trying to manage children alone.
So there he stood. To the tune of her chirping his mind wandered, first admonishing himself for making an appearance at Almacks that evening. Though his reason was sound. Sooner or later he must produce an heir and, when he did, the child damned-well must be legitimate. The problem was finding a suitable wife. Love did not have to play into the equation, but the woman must exhibit intelligence, talent in the arts, had to be reasonably pleasing to the eye, and must not have her nose so far up her backside to prevent her from understanding the privilege of wealth and the need for compassion for those who did not have it.
He’d met a handful of women who might have been suitable candidates. The problem was every female of interest who’d crossed his path was married. He’d even bedded one or two, but only by taking precautions. Fletcher Markham stood by his convictions. Any child produced from his loins would not be labeled a bastard.
Some things were worth enduring the punishment of pretending to pay attention to Mrs. Finch’s high-pitched babble while prowling for a female who might suit. Perhaps a marriage of convenience was what he needed.
When the Baroness of Derby appeared beneath the archway, Fletcher’s gaze came to an abrupt halt. Beside Her Ladyship stood an interesting specimen. And though the back of his neck tingled with recognition—in fact,
far more of his body parts tingled than the back of his neck—he definitely couldn’t place the woman.
Wearing lavender over ivory lace, the rather tall brunette looked on with an air of maturity. Was she married? Fletcher intended to find out—and by his own means. He wasn’t about to ask for an introduction from Mrs. Finch. Asking anyone to introduce him would set the gossips aflutter. He wrested his arm from the woman’s grasp and bowed. “Very interesting, madam. If you will please excuse me, I have a matter to attend.”
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” she asked, the matron’s voice fading into the crowd.
Lady Derby and her companion moved toward a circle of mothers—a group of women from whom all unmarried gentlemen were wise to keep their distance. Circling the mob, Fletcher found a pillar partly concealed by a potted fern with a clear line of sight to the mystery woman. She posed a very interesting vision, indeed. Her expression was a tad blasé rather than anxious and overly eager as were the faces of the young ladies embarking on their first Season.
A faint hint of rose touched her cheeks—her skin flawless, satiny. Fletcher rubbed his fingertips together, imagining a silken caress.
She politely engaged in conversation, nodding, speaking softly. But as her lips moved, he heard her over the others. Her voice was sultry, womanly. And when she smiled, it was as if a ray of sunlight flooded the ballroom.
Oh, do that again, if you please.
Someone moved and blocked his view of the beauty. He inclined his head just enough to see her again. She stood oblivious to his attention, smiling, nodding, a soft chuckle here and there.
Not until she excused herself and headed away from the gaggle did he make a move and follow her out to the corridor.
GEORGIANA HAD DONE her duty and made a grand appearance at Almacks. It was surprising how quickly all the years of finishing school and training to be a proper lady magically returned. Mama ought to be proud. Georgiana hadn’t uttered a single word of complaint, she had kept her expression engaged and thoughtful while gentlewomen of the ton expressed their glee at seeing her in lavender rather than black. She had smiled at the right cues and offered a demure chuckle when the conversation commanded she do so.
When Mama was pulled away by one of her friends, Georgiana took the opportunity to excuse herself and flee to the lady’s withdrawing room where she intended to find a cozy chair and spend the remainder of the evening reading the book she had hidden in her reticule.
She climbed the stairs, pushed inside, and stopped abruptly.
What have they done with the women’s withdrawing room?
She stared across a dim salon, lit only by a wall sconce. Though Georgiana had an uncanny memory, it had obviously failed her as to the location of her coveted hideaway. However, since no plans had been set in motion to use this chamber, perhaps she might find a candle to read by and hide in here.
But then the door opened.
To Georgiana’s horror, standing in the brilliant light of the corridor was none other than the Duke of Evesham.
She glanced about for another exit and found none. Could she run? Had he recognized her? Without the spectacles and her mourning gown, she hardly looked the same. But then he might be of those people who never forgot a face. A clammy chill spread over her skin.
Holy help!
He stepped into the salon, letting the door close behind him. “Sorry to intrude, madam, but I believe you dropped this.”
Madam? Truly, he hadn’t recognized her. And thank goodness the light was dim. “Ah...” To ensure he remained ignorant of her identity, Georgiana moved further into the shadows as she looked to his outstretched hand. She’d dropped her dance card? Blast it all, she should have refused the useless thing at the door.
She held up her palm. “I assure you, I will have no need of that tonight.”
“No?” He made not a sound as he drew nearer. “A beautiful woman so finely attired should dance every set.”
Beautiful? Prickles of warning fired up her nape. Daniel had been two inches shorter than she, but Evesham was taller. Dominating. He stood a good head higher—his eyes dark, his face far too fetching. Good Lord, Georgiana’s hands trembled. He held out the card and grinned, his teeth gleaming white through the shadowy light. As she took it, her fingers brushed his. Warm. Rough. Strong.
Her palm perspired and stuck to the paper. She couldn’t breathe. Never again would she let Mother’s lady’s maid tie her stays. I knew I shouldn’t have come.
Georgiana pointed a slippered foot toward her escape. “I haven’t danced in several years.”
He neared and with him came a feral scent of spice and citrus. “Oh my, that is a shame.”
She backed. “Not really.” With a thump, her spine hit the wall.
The duke stood not but two feet away while his gaze raked down her body. No, not raked, meandered. A lock of black hair fell over one eye while those beautiful teeth scraped over his bottom lip. He studied her as if he were admiring a sculpture—a nude—a female nude. “I do not recall seeing you before. Are you new to London?”
Gracious! She missed her mourning gown and the brooch she wore pinned at her throat. The lacy affair clinging to her breasts was cut far too low and fit much too snugly. “N-no, though I haven’t been here since...well, in a very long time.” No use explaining her life’s history to a notorious rake—a duke she was responsible for showering with two hundred gallons of water earlier that very day.
With one more step, he placed his hand on the wall above her head. “Are you as averse to Town as you are to dancing?”
Georgiana looked him in the eyes. Mistake. Even with poor light they glimmered amber like those of a predator—and oh, so very hungry. The room began to spin. Her breath came in short gasps. “Y-y-you might say that.”
“I see. Well this seems to be a conundrum.” His lips neared as he whispered, “Pray tell, what manner of persuasion brought you to Almacks this evening?” By the deep, sensuous tenor of his voice, he might have been uttering sweet words of passion.
Squeezing her palms against her ribcage, Georgiana took the deepest breath her stays would allow. “I-I’m here to appease my mother.”
His Grace’s minty breath whispered over her as his gaze dipped to her mouth. “Who is?”
By the queen’s knees, if she didn’t escape this very moment, the Duke of Evesham might actually kiss her. No wonder the man had a reputation of being a rake. Did he often follow unsuspecting women into darkened rooms and seduce them?
In a moment of sanity, Georgiana ducked under his arm and fled. “Please excuse me. I must be on my way.”
Chapter Three
AS SUNLIGHT STREAMED in from a gap in the velvet draperies, Fletcher threw an arm over his forehead. Had he slept? After searching every corner of Almacks and being unable to find the mystery woman, he’d taken to the streets. She’d bloody disappeared, and he didn’t even know her name.
He’d acted so cocksure. Had he misinterpreted her interest? But as he’d sauntered toward the woman, she’d practically been panting. And why the hell must he always skirt around the rules? He should have asked Mrs. Finch or any other woman in the hall to give him a damned introduction. But no, he wanted the chase. He wanted the thrill of following the beauty into the shuttered salon. And why the devil had she gone into a dimly lit room alone? Was she lost? Had she planned to meet someone there?
Groaning, he rang for his valet. Fletcher would solve the mystery once and for all. The woman had entered Almacks on the arm of Lady Derby. Was Derby the beauty’s mother, the woman Lady Beauty was there to appease? He would call on the baroness this morning and put an end to this quandary.
Most likely the woman in question was married, or otherwise engaged. She didn’t fit the bill for a debutante. Truly, she didn’t fit the bill for anything except for that of a lovely matron, married to a country gentleman who didn’t care much for balls. Once the mystery was put to rest, he’d stop thinking about their encounter and that would be the
end of his torture.
An hour later, a butler answered the door to Derby’s Mayfair Place town house.
Fletcher handed the man his card. “Evesham here. Is Derby in?”
“No, Your Grace. His Lordship is at court.”
Of course he was—which was exactly the reason Fletcher had chosen this hour to make a call. “Unfortunate. Would I be able to gain an audience with Her Ladyship? It won’t take but a moment.”
“I shall inquire.” The butler gestured inside. “Please have a seat in the parlor.”
It took less than five minutes for the baroness to make an appearance in the exquisitely appointed parlor, painted in rich mauves and furnished in the latest Grecian style. “Your Grace, it is an honor to receive you.”
Fletcher stood and bowed. “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, my lady.”
“Please do resume your seat.” She gestured to the settee, every bit a well-bred gentlewoman. “I’ve ordered some tea and cakes.”
“How very kind.”
“Now tell me, what has brought you to Mayfair Place this morning?”
It was always a relief to dispense with the pleasantries and move on to the reason for his visit. “I saw you enter Almacks with a woman on your arm. I couldn’t place her, but when I thought to ask for an introduction, she was nowhere to be found. I imagined she might be a matron, or a relation of some sort...?”
The woman beamed—her expression not unlike those faces of the mothers of the ton. “That must have been the fleeting moment when my daughter made an appearance. Please forgive her. Last eve was her first social engagement in some time. She spent nearly the entire evening reading in the women’s withdrawing room.”
“I take it she’s averse to dancing.”