by Sara Ramsey
“Your grace,” Lucretia said, stepping around Callie. “Lady Maidenstone and I are delighted you have joined us.”
Lady Maidenstone? Callie glanced sharply at the blonde. She had heard that her grandfather had remarried before the end, but this girl…
And then she heard a voice she could already recognize anywhere.
“Miss Briarley,” the stranger from the woods said. “The pleasure is mine.”
* * *
Thorington had wanted to put on a show such as Maidenstone had never seen. He, of all people, should have known better than to make such a wish.
Callista Briarley hadn’t seen him enter. Her back was to the door, facing Lucretia. Her stance was militant. It appeared that Callista had only just arrived herself. And however she had occupied herself in the previous hour, it had not been with the attentions of a lady’s maid.
He wouldn’t let his eyes linger on the view of her from behind — a view he’d seen, all too briefly, at the Maidenstone clearing before she had turned to find him watching her. The divided skirt covered all it should. Dusty, it should have had no appeal at all. But the flare of her hips beneath the riding jacket, the way she stood ready to seize the world…
He lingered too long, despite his intentions. Lucretia Briarley was greeting him, with the same wary, frightened smile he usually earned from polite women — the kind of women who couldn’t help but be polite, even to someone who might hurt them. And so he returned her greeting, with the drawl that always heightened others’ nerves, and watched his intended quarry.
Callista flinched.
Thorington smiled.
Lucretia, trying hard to pretend that she wasn’t entirely overwhelmed by him, offered him her hand and curtsied as he kissed it. “May I present Lady Maidenstone?” she asked, gesturing to the blonde chit behind her.
Thorington bowed. He’d heard of Lady Maidenstone, but never met her. She wore lavender, the last stage of mourning. Her blue eyes seemed to take up the entirety of her face.
She’d barely been more than a child when the earl had married her. “My condolences that you must still wear mourning for the old goat,” he said to her.
Lucretia flushed. Lady Maidenstone was startled into giving him a real smile before she curtsied. When she came up from it, she had forced the corners of her mouth into submission. “It is only for another month, your grace. But I thank you for your sympathy.”
She would have been a sensation in London if she had come out there. She’d never had the chance, though. If the rumors were true — and, seeing this girl, Thorington knew them to be — the old Earl of Maidenstone had, in all but deed, bought her from her impoverished family for the chance of getting a son after his last heir had died.
If life was fair, the girl should have inherited everything — she would have deserved it, even if she’d only been tied to the man for two years. But she hadn’t succeeded in producing a child. And Lord Maidenstone hadn’t seen fit to give her anything for her troubles. She would get whatever portion he’d settled on her at marriage, and nothing else.
Life was not fair. There was no use in feeling sorry for her, even if he wished to. And so he dismissed her as useless to him. No matter what her charms were, her loveliness would go to a man who could afford to do without a dowry.
He returned his gaze to Callista. She turned, finally, as though confronting her own death.
Her hair was wilder, her skirts dirtier, her hands clenched as though ready to do him violence. She was taller than the other women in the room, perhaps five feet and eight inches — but the two inches she had over Lucretia seemed like more when her rage added stiffness to her backbone. She had gotten just enough sun under the brim of her slightly-skewed hat to warm her skin.
And she had breasts to match those hips. She was proportioned like an Amazonian conqueror, not a coquette.
He smiled again. When he finally brought his eyes back to her face, she was flushed — and it wasn’t with pleasure.
Lucretia made no move to introduce her. “Present your guest to me, Miss Briarley,” he commanded. “She hasn’t had the honor of meeting me.”
It was a subtle warning. He hoped Callista remembered that she wasn’t supposed to know him.
“You’ve a funny definition of honor, sirrah,” Callista said.
Lucretia gasped. Behind him, Rafe laughed. Thorington merely raised an eyebrow. “You must be the American cousin,” he said, in his exaggerated drawl. “Am I your first duke?”
For once he hadn’t meant an innuendo to it, but she blushed as though he had. She tilted her chin up, though, and stared him down. “I had a thoroughbred named Duke once. But I found he didn’t match the promise of his bloodlines.”
“Charming,” Thorington murmured. “But we still haven’t been properly introduced.”
There was a brief, dark pause, as though no one wanted to interrupt whatever it was they had between them. Then Lady Maidenstone stepped forward. “May I present to you Miss Callista Briarley? Miss Briarley, his grace the Duke of Thorington.”
He grabbed Callista’s hand before she had properly offered it to him. “A delight,” he said as he brushed his lips over her hand.
When he had done it before, little more than an hour earlier, her fingers had curled lightly in his — a momentary, and no doubt unintentional, surrender. Now, when his lips caressed over her knuckles, he had the vague premonition that she would rather hit him than let him touch her.
But she had just enough sense not to hit a duke in a public setting. She did not, however, have the sense to curtsey to him. He felt her sway into the very beginning of one — but then she stopped herself.
“An honor to meet you, of course.” She stayed standing straight, no sign of deference. And she didn’t call him ‘your grace,’ as any other woman would have.
He didn’t want to drop her hand. There was a spark in her eyes that he had never seen before — a challenge he found nearly irresistible.
But he remembered his plans. He tucked her arm neatly into the crook of his own and guided her toward his siblings, ignoring her protests. “Lord Rafael, Lord Anthony, Lady Serena, Lady Portia,” he said, gesturing to each of them in turn. “All as honored to meet you as you are to meet them.”
Given the daggers his sisters were shooting at her, and the way she was trying to escape him, the statement was accurate. None were honored, and none were subtle about it.
Anthony looked her over and frowned. But he reserved his glare for Thorington.
Only Rafe was civil. “Miss Briarley,” he exclaimed, as though he’d waited ages to meet her. “Have you only just arrived from America? You must tell me how you are finding Devonshire.”
Trust Rafe to seem vastly intrigued — he could charm anyone when he was in the mood for it. Callista stopped struggling for just a moment and nodded at him. “Baltimore to Havana to London took six months of travel, with no time to rest before arriving this morning. I’ve no opinion of Devonshire other than to hope there aren’t maggots in the meat.”
Lucretia gasped again. “Your grandfather would be appalled at the thought, Miss Briarley,” she said in quelling tones as she stepped up to their group.
Callista shrugged. “If he would have kept me waiting for a room like you have, he probably wasn’t too particular about his housekeeping.”
Rafe made a soothing sound, trying to play peacemaker. “These house parties are so difficult to arrange, aren’t they? Particularly this one. Half the fortune-hunters in Britain will be trying to win you both.”
He included Lucretia in his assessment — charitably, to Thorington’s mind. But Lucretia unbent just a little. “Indeed, Lord Rafael. But I’m sure Lady Maidenstone and I have looked forward to your family’s arrival. We are honored that you’ve chosen to attend.”
She said it politely, but there was a question in her voice. And with good reason. Thorington had taken the highly unusual — some would say unacceptable — step of writing to Lady Maidenstone and d
emanding an invitation. Even for him, it was a bold approach. But he never would have been invited on his own merits.
Thorington didn’t react to her question, beyond a slightly dangerous smile. Lucretia’s gaze flickered over to him, but when she saw that smile, she immediately returned her attention to Rafe.
Callista, who was still trapped next to him, would have said something cutting if she’d seen Thorington’s smile. Lucretia, though, did what was expected of her. She was pretty enough, but she was smaller than Callista, as though she had been made for pouring tea instead of fighting battles. And her face had the same Briarley nose, framed by the same glossy brown hair — but her face was too closed off, her hair too perfect.
Lucretia was almost certainly the safer choice. But Callista…
“And where is the third member of your Briarley triumvirate?” Rafe asked.
“Octavia will arrive whenever she wishes to arrive, I’m sure,” Lucretia said. “She always does.”
There was an awkward silence after that, but Rafe filled it gracefully enough with a question about the weather. Rafe’s sole skill was putting others at ease. His charm was so effortless, his smile so steady, that no one would have guessed that demons haunted him. And it gave Thorington a moment to consider his plans.
It would have been unnatural if he hadn’t considered keeping Callista for himself. He didn’t particularly want a wife — being vowless, after ten years with Ariana, was still pleasing enough that he wasn’t ready to take on a new obligation.
But he wasn’t opposed, either. He knew how to keep a wife. It was mostly a matter of writing cheques for her wardrobe. Or occasionally taking her to the opera, with the expectation that she would let him into her bed after. Easy business, transacted coolly, with an eye toward the balance on his ledgers rather than the needs of his heart.
However, if his lack of luck held, he would run through whatever money a bride brought him in less than a year. It was a better plan to leave the heiress for his brother, who could make use of her economic assets even if he wasn’t in love with her.
He assessed the situation with the coldness of a mercenary. Callista had given up trying to retrieve her hand. But she ignored all of them, choosing instead to stare off into the middle distance like a martyr awaiting the fire.
Anthony, younger than her, had less composure. He still stood in the doorway, unwilling to cross the threshold, blocking the footman who looked perturbed over holding the door open. He looked from Callista to Lucretia and back again as though Thorington had asked him to choose a circle of Hell to dwell in. Then he pressed a hand to his mouth as though he might be sick.
Thorington, for once, took pity on him. He dropped Callista’s hand. “How thoughtless of me, to keep you conversing with us when you no doubt wish to rest,” he said. “I am sure your room is ready now.”
He said this with a sharp look at Lucretia, who nodded automatically. No one would gainsay a duke. “One of the footmen will take you to the Tudor wing, Miss Briarley,” she said, sounding faint.
“That will do for now,” Callista said. “Send my maid to me as well.”
“And a bath, I think,” Thorington said.
The silence was absolute as color bloomed on Callista’s cheeks. She finally nodded, all bravado, as though she’d suggested it. “And a bath. And tell my maid to fetch my pistol from my trunks.”
She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving the footman Lucretia frantically gestured at to trail in her wake. She let him catch her at the other end of the hall, no doubt because she needed directions and didn’t want to ask for them.
She was magnificent.
Lucretia coughed delicately as Callista disappeared. “I apologize for her, your grace. She is newly from America and isn’t yet familiar with our ways. I assure you that you will find better company during your stay here.”
For once, he didn’t say what he wanted to — that he would rather talk to Callista than anyone else. Instead, he murmured his thanks. Then the butler escorted his family to their rooms — spacious chambers in the newest section of the house, two floors up from the entryway, where only the best guests would be housed. They would have two hours to rest before assembling in the drawing room at four o’clock for drinks before dinner.
Thorington would need all of that time to consider his plans. But Anthony didn’t wait above fifteen minutes before knocking on his door.
“I cannot do this,” Anthony said.
His cravat was askew and his blond hair was mussed. His right boot was scuffed. Anthony had broken himself of the habit of digging his shoe into the floor after discovering the pleasure of a perfectly polished pair of Hessians, but in moments of extreme emotion he sometimes forgot his vanity.
Thorington, already stripped down to his shirt and breeches, glanced at his valet. “Give us a moment,” he said.
As soon as the door closed, Anthony repeated himself. “I cannot do this. I cannot marry either of them.”
“It’s early days, Anthony,” Thorington said. “You’ll feel better once you’ve accustomed yourself to the idea.”
“No.” Anthony paced to the window, looking out over Maidenstone’s carefully kept lawn. “I don’t intend to marry for ages — and even if I did, it wouldn’t be either of the Briarleys. Lucretia is provincial and Callista is entirely improper. Can you imagine either of them hosting parties in London? Even for this,” he said, gesturing toward the estate beyond the glass. “Even for this, it’s too high a price to pay.”
Those were the words of someone who didn’t remember the days when Thorington House had leaked like a sieve. Anthony had never wanted for anything. He’d never wondered how to pay for something — he’d always signed his vowels and sent the bill to Thorington. He’d never heard their parents screaming over the modiste’s bill, over their mother’s trips to Bath, over the annuity for their father’s latest cast-off mistress.
“It’s a low price, actually,” Thorington said. “You don’t have to love your wife. You just have to give her your name.”
“You say it as though it’s nothing,” Anthony said.
Thorington shrugged. “It’s a small price for having a roof over your head.”
“But they’re both so…”
He shuddered. Thorington loosened his cravat and tossed it onto the bed. “I’ll grant Lucretia might not appeal. But Callista would make you a fine wife.”
“Callista?” Anthony’s voice was as scandalized as if Thorington had told him he must marry a prostitute. “She looks like she was raised trapping furs and distilling liquor. She will never get vouchers to Almack’s if she cannot be bothered to curtsey to a duke. Can you imagine how the patronesses would react to such a snub?”
Thorington snorted. He had no trouble recalling her image, but what he remembered was different from Anthony’s interpretation. True, with her strong, supple limbs and fearless stance, she could have claimed she had trapped her way up and down the Hudson and he would have believed her.
And, oddly, he wouldn’t have minded it.
He should have found her entirely unappealing. He liked his women like he liked his beds — soft, snug, and easily abandoned in the morning for more worthwhile pursuits. Callista Briarley wasn’t soft. And she would not be easily abandoned.
But he needed security for his siblings, not another problem. So he ignored the memory of her, of how she’d drawn the first real laugh out of him in ages. Anthony would discover her humor. Anthony would see beyond the wild hair and overly exuberant smile to find the remarkable woman she could become. Anthony would love her as she deserved.
“You can choose Lucretia instead, if you wish,” Thorington said. “Or perhaps you’ll take a liking to Octavia when you meet her. But I am confident that Callista is the most appealing of the three. She may be a barbarian, but barbarians can be civilized. Lucretia would be harder to entertain. And everyone in England knows Octavia is too much trouble after the scandal she caused in London a few years ago.”
> Anthony frowned. “My needs aren’t so extravagant that I must marry an heiress. I can reduce my expenditures if you ask me to.”
Thorington snorted again.
“I can,” Anthony insisted.
“Give up your curricle?”
Anthony nodded.
“And the blood bays? You’ll find it difficult to gain entrance to the Four Horse Club without horseflesh.”
Anthony swallowed. “I can find other entertainments.”
“Your tailor? Membership at White’s? The next term at Cambridge? Your Grand Tour?”
His brother fell silent. He had been flushed earlier, but now his face was entirely drained of color.
Thorington could have left it there, but he needed Anthony to see the problem at hand. “You think your needs aren’t extravagant because I pay for your housing and entertainments. Father left you nothing in his will. Your continued survival is solely due to my largesse. And my largesse is coming to an end.”
Anthony looked out the window again. Thorington never mentioned his younger siblings’ disputed parentage — the reference to the will was as close as he ever got to the subject. And he already regretted it. But Anthony had to understand what was at stake.
“I don’t need an heiress,” Anthony said, in a smaller voice. “I would be content with a small cottage and room for a garden.”
“An heiress could pay for someone to maintain that garden for you. And you would miss London if you could not keep a house there.”
“I shall stay with friends when I visit the city,” Anthony said, turning back to Thorington with bravado in his voice.
His breezy confidence broke Thorington’s heart. But it also made him angry. “You haven’t any idea what your life would be if I didn’t take care of you. Now, you will marry one of the Briarley heiresses. If you want me to arrange it so you don’t have to choose between them, I shall. But there will be no more discussion of the matter.”