Beverley Kendall

by Sinful Surrender (lit)

  Cartwright gave a short dry laugh as he rose to his feet and headed toward the sideboard, which held a lone decanter of brandy and several tumblers. “If she wasn’t like a sister to me, I’m quite certain she would be.”

  James’s smile touched only his mouth. He had thought much the same until she’d started giving him cockstands. Perhaps the difference being Cartwright had bounced Missy on his knee when she was still in nappies. He and Armstrong had attended Eton together as boys. James had met the men years later while studying at Cambridge, where the three had formed a deep bond of friendship.

  The prior day, he and Cartwright had joined Armstrong at his country estate in Devon, the seat of his viscountcy, for the viscountess’s annual winter ball. James knew they were not invited solely for the purpose of male companionship or their rapier wit. As one of the most sought after bachelors in all of London (well, certainly since he’d managed to replenish the Armstrong coffers) his friend’s motives were purely mercenary. By forcing them to attend his mother’s ball, Armstrong effectively deflected some of the attentions of the marriage-minded mothers and their daughters, especially as James would someday become the sixth Earl of Windmere. Outranking Armstrong, James was a much more desirable target for those who considered a man’s title the height of his distinction. And Cartwright, despite his status as second son to the Duke of Hastings, had enough money to placate many of the socially ambitious mamas, and more than enough good looks to enamor their aristocratic daughters.

  Cartwright eyed him and continued. “I believe Missy would make you a fine wife. Certainly a far better one than you deserve,” he chided. “But under vastly different circumstances.” Picking up the decanter, he jerked his head toward the brandy, and asked, “Will you have one?”

  James nodded absently. “Such circumstances as…?” he asked, knowing full well it was a mistake to continue along that particular line of questioning.

  “First, I’d have to set aside the fact that your interest in women is notoriously short-lived and Armstrong would never countenance you as his brother-in-law. That said, under the condition you believed in the notion of fidelity, and actually had the capacity to fall in love.”

  For some odd reason, Cartwright’s comments stung. He had the capacity to love. Just not a woman in the “till death do us part” sense. Moreover, he had yet to meet a gentleman who practiced fidelity—and only a handful of women for that matter. At least the married women of his acquaintance.

  “Well I have no intention of marrying her. Who are you now, the ton’s matchmaker? I daresay I can choose my own wife. And at a time I require one,” he said, allowing his sarcasm free rein.

  His own father hadn’t married until the age of thirty-five and James could not conceive of one reason he shouldn’t follow in his example. Which gave him another seven years until he needed to make any such decision. When he did marry, his wife and children would reside in the country, while he discreetly kept a mistress in Town. That was how it was done, his parents being the perfect example.

  “Yes, given your views on marriage, I imagine you will choose someone like Lady Victoria, the venerable ice maiden.” Cartwright headed back to the sitting area, drinks in hand.

  “At least with her, a man knows what he’s getting.” James accepted the glass from his friend, immediately tipping it to his mouth for a swallow.

  He’d rather a passionless wife from the start than have her turn into a cold fish after she’d produced the requisite heir and the spare, just as his mother had done. He’d see the earldom pass to his younger brother, Christopher, before he’d become a man like his father, reduced to beggaring himself for sexual favors from his own wife. He’d never sacrifice his self-respect on the altar of marriage to the illusion of romantic love.

  “At least you’d never have to worry about being cuckolded if you married her. I’m sure she’ll find the begetting of heirs distasteful enough,” Cartwright said with a laugh, settling back in his seat, his long legs stretched wide before him.

  Lady Victoria, the youngest daughter of the Marquess of Cornwall, was said to have put the ice in icicle—or so many gentlemen claimed. With countless proposals over the course of five Seasons, bets were being made at White’s and Boodle’s as to whom her mother would force her to marry and at what age. Others wagered she’d defy her mother and would end up being relegated to the shelf.

  James thought the lot of them spiteful and cruel. He personally liked Lady Victoria. Not because she was beautiful, but because she had never displayed an infinitesimal amount of interest in him as a man. Unlike most of the man-hungry misses of the ton, she made him feel he could lower his guard in her company. With her, he was safe.

  “At least I’d be assured my heir was truly my heir,” James said wryly.

  “Is that your fear? That your wife will try to pass another man’s by-blow off as yours?”

  “As it will be the only thing I will require of her, it would be nice if I had some amount of certainty the child was mine.” James downed the rest of his drink with one long swallow and then pushed to his feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to retire to my guest chamber until supper is served.”

  Cartwright tipped his glass toward him, a small smile playing across his lips. “I suggest you use the servants’ stairs if you wish to avoid a certain miss fairly haunting the halls.”

  Before James could respond, Armstrong appeared in the doorway, a glove dangling from one hand, while he removed the other with short, deft tugs.

  “Good, you’re here,” he said, pinning James with a green-eyed stare. “We need to discuss Missy.”

  Good Lord, what now?

  Dressed in a hunter green coat and breeches, and a pair of scuffed knee-high leather boots, it appeared his friend had been riding. A fact confirmed once he started toward James, bringing with him a faint whiff of horseflesh and the outdoors.

  A sideways glance and a casual inclination of the viscount’s head served as his greeting to Cartwright. He halted in front of the low center table and tossed his gloves on the polished redwood surface. Standing opposite him and close enough to note the faint tick of his jaw, James raised one eyebrow in query.

  “A change of plans,” Armstrong said in that clipped manner of his.

  James blinked. “Pardon?”

  “This thing with my sister. You keeping your distance until she finds a husband.”

  “Ah yes, the brilliant plan. It’s been a smashing success, wouldn’t you agree?” Cartwright—always one who loathed omission from discussions of this sort—chimed in.

  James and Armstrong treated him to similar dark glares. In response, Cartwright lifted his shoulders in an innocent shrug while trying to maintain a guileless expression.

  With an acute sense of apprehension, James directed his attention back to Armstrong and asked, “What of Missy?”

  For a moment, his friend said nothing, merely watched him. When he commenced speaking, he did so slowly, as if a great deal of thought had gone into every word. “After all this time, it’s quite obvious your absence has done little to diminish her affections. In fact, I think she believes herself more in love with you than ever. Dug in her heels is what she’s done. Do you realize she’s turned down over twenty proposals of marriage since her debut?”

  That many? A rush of heat suffused James’s face as if the blame could be laid squarely at his door. Thrusting his hands deep into his trouser pockets, he widened his stance but didn’t respond.

  “My mother will not allow Emily to debut this year with Missy still unsettled. If I don’t act now, I’ll have all three of my sisters out in the marriage market tripping over each other.”

  “What more do you want me to do? What more can I do? Until yesterday, I hadn’t seen her since your mother’s birthday celebration, which was almost seven months back. And if you recall, it was at the viscountess’s insistence that I attended. Should I now take up residence in France?”

  “The Duke has a flat in Paris. He’d
never let it to me, his own flesh and blood, but perhaps if you asked him…?”

  James ignored Cartwright, finding little humor in his attempt to interject wit into the exchange.

  Armstrong’s mouth edged up at the corners. “I assure you, nothing so extreme. What I’m suggesting is that we reverse the strategy. Your absence has only made you into a figure in her head. Grander than life, like some fictional romantic hero. She needs to see you out in Society at all those damn events charming and flirting with women. Beautiful and attractive ones. She’s never seen that side of you.”

  James knew what he meant. She’d never seen the rake in him. The charmer. The seducer. Not that he’d ever had to do much seducing. Then of course, months later, when it was over and the thrill of the affair was over, he could walk away without once looking back.

  “Perhaps then,” Armstrong said, continuing to press his point, “she’ll realize how ill suited the two of you are and hopefully cast Granville in a better light. Though why in the world she has done nothing to encourage him is beyond me. I mean, the man’s heir to a damned dukedom. And it’s not as though he’s old and decrepit. Most women would give up their best face cream to be in her position.”

  Good God, the way he went on about Granville, one would think the man was a bloody saint. Being heir to a dukedom was simply a happenstance of birth, not indicative of a man’s core character. And what the hell was Armstrong thinking in asking him to spend an entire Season in such close proximity to Missy? The effort to keep his hands off her was hard enough. Damn hard.

  “You’ve always had a soft spot for her and I know you want her happiness and well-being just as much as I do. I realize I’m imposing on our friendship again, but I want my sister married and settled by year’s end. All the better if it’s Granville.” Armstrong paused, and drew a breath. “Why don’t you begin tomorrow evening at my mother’s ball?”

  Swallowing hard, James met his gaze without blinking. This would all be for her long-term benefit. His misery would be short-lived. When put to him like that, he could scarcely refuse. “I will do what I can.”

  A smile lit Armstrong’s face. “Good. I knew I could count on you. And knowing you as I do, I have every confidence you’ll succeed.”

  The evening of the ball, air so cold it would make Jack Frost weep, gave winter a glacial presence. Even the snowflakes long enraptured by the season refused to fall.

  Inside the warm, gray stone structure of Stoneridge Hall, Missy remained by her mother’s side as they greeted the last recently thawed guest in the queue, the dowager Countess of Stockwell.

  For what seemed an eternity, the dowager recounted in excruciating detail every bump and gully she’d encountered on her harrowing journey to Stoneridge Hall. If Missy had not been aware that she lived a short distance down the road on the neighboring estate, she’d have sworn the dowager had traveled days and ridden through Siberia on a hunger-weakened reindeer to get there.

  Thankfully, the finely plumed headdress of Lady Bailey, a peer and counterpart of the dowager, captured Lady Stockwell’s feckless attention. Halting in midsentence, the dowager’s brown-eyed gaze pinned her next quarry. Quickly excusing herself, her steps sure and swift, she hastened toward the refreshment table where Lady Bailey could easily be captured innocently sipping a glass of punch.

  In unison, Missy and the viscountess expelled heartfelt sighs of relief.

  “I don’t believe I have ever met anyone quite so longwinded,” the viscountess said. She turned and stared down the long stretch of gleaming marble floors leading to towering front doors. “I do hope all is well with Lucky.”

  Missy hoped for her brother’s sake that the horse would live up to its name. Her brother’s prized mare had gone into labor late that morning, but by the afternoon it had become evident there were difficulties with the birth. When the men had heard the news, they had rushed down to the stables where they remained ever since. That had been four long hours ago, and one tortuous hour since their first guests had heralded in.

  Fearing if she spoke, she’d reveal the depth of her despair, Missy nodded mutely in response. She desperately hoped to dance with James this evening. When he returned to London, she didn’t know when she’d see him, if at all during the coming Season. With only two days at her disposal, she had to make every minute count.

  “Now it is time for you to go dance and enjoy yourself.” The viscountess smiled and flicked her fingers in a shooing motion. “Claire appears to be having a fine time with Mr. Finley, and I know many of the gentlemen are waiting patiently for you to conclude your hostess duties so they may accompany you to the dance floor.”

  Missy spotted her friend executing the steps to a quadrille. She looked lovely in her pale blue taffeta gown, a beautiful strand of pearls adorning her neck. Claire, the only daughter of Baron and Baroness Rutland, lived on the neighboring estate to the south. They had become fast friends as children, Claire claiming seniority by one year.

  “Lady Armstrong.”

  With her attention elsewhere, Missy had failed to see Lord Edward Crawley’s approach. Broad-shouldered and husky, he topped her five-foot-nine-inch stature by no more than two inches and wore his light brown hair, in her opinion, overly long.

  “Good evening, Lord Crawley. I expect you are here seeking my daughter.” The viscountess blessed him with a brilliant smile. He responded with a white, winsome smile of his own, his tawny eyes respectfully admiring the viscountess, resplendent in her royal blue satin gown. Her mother looked far too beautiful to have given birth to four children, and certainly too youthful to have a son just three years short of his thirtieth.

  Lord Crawley’s gaze then arrested on Missy and he did nothing to disguise his romantic interest. “That is, if Miss Armstrong will grant me this dance?” he said, with a gallant bow and a proffered arm.

  After a quick glance at her mother, who inclined her head in approval, she accepted his white-gloved hand, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor where a waltz had just commenced.

  “You look lovely this evening,” he said, drawing her into his arms.

  “Thank you,” Missy replied, her tone polite. With experienced ease and surprising grace for a man with his muscled stature, he whirled her into the throng of swirling gowns of every conceivable color and hue, and pristine black dress coats, trousers and waistcoats.

  Their fathers had been peers in the House of Lords but the frequency of their meetings had seen a marked decrease after her father’s death ten years prior of an apoplexy fit. They’d renewed their acquaintance during the course of her first Season. Missy knew with but the slightest bit of encouragement from her, Lord Crawley would ask Thomas for her hand. However, he fell into the vast category of all men other than James—the group who had a better chance of ridding London of its fog than gaining her affections.

  As they moved smoothly on the polished floors, Missy began to feel ill at ease under his admiring regard. As they were of similar height, in order to avoid eye contact, she directed her attention over his shoulder and took an idle tour of the hall.

  Globe lamps illuminated the three-storied room, its cream walls appearing yellow under their warm glow. Ornamental shrubbery obscured the three-piece orchestra discreetly tucked away near the French doors leading to the walking gardens. A plethora of potted plants and fluted vases containing daisies and lilies dotted the circumference of the room infusing it with a fragrant scent. Her focus drifted toward the double doors to the hall entrance and skidded to a halt. Her heart lurched and her breath hitched softly.

  James had arrived.

  In that moment, their eyes connected.

  James’s body instantly responded to Missy’s gaze. He wanted to look away but couldn’t will his eyes to obey. A feeling of drowning in the fathomless sea of her gray-blue eyes rolled over him in a wave. She was breathtaking—and dancing in the arms of another man. A niggling sense of irritation had him clenching his jaw.

  Crawley. A more pompous fool he would
never meet. The few times he’d run into him in the halls of Cambridge, Crawley had impressed him as being one of the privileged ton who exalted his station over those he considered his minions.

  “Missy looks ravishing. Wouldn’t you agree, Rutherford?” Cartwright spoke sotto voce, sending him a sidelong glance, the semblance of a smile ghosting his dark features.

  James ignored his knowing look and did his level best to keep his expression impassive, helpless to do anything else but continue to watch her.

  “Will you look at Missy. She has half the men fairly champing at the bit eager to make her their wife.” Armstrong said with a sigh worthy of a Shakespearean player at St. James Theatre.

  With the knowledge he had been doing little else since they’d arrived, James wrenched his gaze away from her and turned to Armstrong. His friend appeared more at ease now the ordeal with his horse was over, his features having lost the strained look of worry. The tired mare had delivered a healthy foal just the hour before, and they had left the foal nursing comfortably with its mother.

  “I wonder if Granville has shown.” Armstrong gazed about the hall.

  “You need only follow the trail of women and he’s sure to be holding court at center stage,” James said with a hint of unintended wryness in his tone. He had nothing against the man. Granville had certainly been good to Armstrong after his father had died. It had been he who had introduced his friend to Lord Bradford, who subsequently aided Armstrong in his financial recovery.

  Granville was exceedingly well liked by both men and women, and not only because of his rank in Society. What was not to like? He was amiable, good-looking and intelligent, although somewhat guarded at times. And the latter certainly wasn’t a crime as people had said the same of him.

  It was just that…James immediately closed off the direction of his thoughts. Further dissecting his reasons would do him little good.