Duke of Thorns (Heiress Games 1)

by Sara Ramsey

  Anthony gave Thorington a speaking glare, but he knew when there was no point in continuing an argument. After a long moment, he left. But he didn’t slam the door as Thorington expected him to. He shut it softly — as though Thorington wasn’t worth his anger anymore.

  Thorington sighed. He turned back to the washstand, stripped off his shirt, and splashed cool water on his face.

  It wasn’t enough. He dunked his head in the basin instead. He held his breath until the pressure in his lungs overwhelmed the scream of frustration waiting there.

  Then he pulled his face out of the water, gasping. He should have told Anthony before today. Should have given him time to adjust to the idea of marriage. But the last three weeks in Devonshire, rambling over the woods and fields, had very nearly felt like a gift. Anthony had gone with him some days. It was the first time that Anthony had begun to feel like his brother, not his responsibility. The boy had even cracked a few jests. It was little wonder Anthony seemed so popular with his friends, even though Thorington rarely saw that side of him — he had a wicked sense of humor when he forgot that Thorington controlled his purse strings.

  They hadn’t discussed anything of importance. But at least their silences had been easy.

  They might never be easy again.

  He shoved his wet hair out of his eyes and looked out the window at the view Anthony had spurned. It was good land, with a solid house and productive tenants. Anthony needed that. He would be a good man someday — the seeds of it were already there, even though he was too young for such a responsibility. But Thorington had been even younger when he had begun to raise his siblings. Anthony would grow into it.

  Thorington would see to it that he had the chance to be more than just a rumored bastard with no income. Even if Anthony hated him for it.

  His valet returned then. Thorington dressed for dinner as though preparing for battle. Anthony might not want Maidenstone Abbey, but Thorington would hand it to him on a platter if he had to.

  And if Callista Briarley was the key to the kingdom, he’d hand her to him as well.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  At a quarter past four, Thorington stood outside one of Maidenstone’s drawing rooms and willed himself to focus. The mantle he wore in public — his identity as the Duke of Thorington — was something he could slip into effortlessly. There had been a time, years earlier, when he had just been Gavin. Now, he knew how to command a room, how to fill it with his presence until others were dazzled by the show he gave them.

  He would dazzle everyone. They would only see the Duke of Thorington, as cool and imperturbable as always. None of them knew about the small stack of letters awaiting him when he’d arrived — the first tentative requests for payment from his many and varied creditors, forwarded by his business manager with a rather worried note. None of them knew that he had very nearly shouted at his valet when the man had ruined a jacket Thorington couldn’t afford to replace.

  Thorington, for all his faults, didn’t shout at servants.

  He strode through the doors. The rest of the room fell away. The other suitors knew better than to get in his way.

  He was the Duke of Thorington, and he would take what he sought.

  He took in the scene like a predator looking for the most delicious prey. Rafe stood near the empty fireplace, surveying the room just as Thorington did, although he was probably looking for liquor rather than heiresses. Anthony and the girls were just visible through the doors to the connecting drawing room, talking to a circle of Anthony’s friends. Anthony wouldn’t lack for company here, since half the families in the ton would have sent their sons in an attempt to win Maidenstone.

  No sign of Callista, though. If he weren’t so well-schooled, he would have grinned. Whenever she arrived, he suspected she would make an entrance.

  But while he waited, he may as well pursue his agenda. He found his first quarry almost immediately. Lucretia sat near the opposite wall with Lady Maidenstone, under a portrait of Lord Maidenstone. It was a bad likeness. Thorington had seen the old earl in the House of Lords on numerous occasions, before his final series of illnesses over the last three years had confined him to Maidenstone. The painting had captured his hauteur, but not his charm.

  The granddaughter beneath the painting had all the hauteur as well. Thorington hoped she had some of the charm. If Anthony didn’t care for Callista, Lucretia was the next best option — Octavia, by all accounts, was far too scandalous. Anthony already had expensive tastes. A woman with a similarly destructive bent would ruin him.

  He walked up to Lucretia, his pace leisurely, as though he knew she’d wait for him to say whatever he wished to say. “Lady Maidenstone, Miss Briarley,” he said, giving them the honor of a small bow. “Maidenstone Abbey is exquisite. If you keep it, by some miracle, I hope to be invited to visit again.”

  Callista might have punched him for being unapologetically rude, but Lucretia was more reserved. “Thank you, your grace,” she said, even as two spots of color bloomed on her cheeks. “I hope the party shall show it to its best advantage.”

  The girl positively reeked of pride. He might even smell it if he stepped closer, but he kept his distance. “I’ve no doubt it will show to advantage,” he said. “Such a prize would tempt anyone, no matter what they must marry to gain it.”

  It was beyond rude of him to say such a thing. But he wanted to see whether she had backbone, and insults were the quickest way to reveal it.

  She drew herself up. “The Briarleys are a proud and ancient house, your grace — one that any family in England should aspire to join.”

  “Is that true, Lady Maidenstone?” he asked her companion. “Are the Briarleys a good match?”

  Lady Maidenstone had watched him, fascinated, throughout this exchange. She shrugged. “Lord Maidenstone’s pedigree was never in question.”

  The girl could have been a diplomat with that kind of answer. He smiled. “Unfortunately, it’s not the Briarley pedigree that any of us are here for. I wish you good fortune at this party, Miss Briarley — provided it doesn’t conflict with my own.”

  Lucretia’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes were pretty enough. But Anthony was right — she was provincial. Her dress, her hair, even the room she greeted them in — it was all too perfect, as though she’d seen a fashion plate and copied it exactly rather than letting her own sense of style prevail. Anthony would prefer a girl who set the fashions of the day, not one who slavishly followed them.

  But he observed her potential, looking her up and down in a cool, distant sort of way. She might make an interesting wife for someone, someday, if she gained a bit of humor and lost of a bit of stiffness.

  She wasn’t his problem. A few moments of conversation had already told him all he needed to know. Unless Anthony’s tastes changed, Lucretia wasn’t the heiress who would save them.

  As he returned his gaze to her face, her back stiffened further — how, when it already seemed close to snapping, he couldn’t begin to guess. But she took a deep breath and looked him dead in the eyes. “Would you care to take a turn on the balcony before dinner, your grace? I find I’m rather too warm at the moment.”

  That set him back, unexpectedly, on his heels. No proper woman would ask him, a man they all believed was capable of compromising innocents, to take a turn on the balcony with her.

  Had he missed some clue about her? Lucretia didn’t have the look of a fortune-hunter or a social climber. She was too forthright — too forthright for flirtation, or any of the other tricks Ariana had used. But from the way her hand fluttered to her stomach, as though adding support to her diaphragm as she held her breath, he sensed her nerves.

  And a dangerous chasm opened up at his feet.

  He took a step back from her, instinctually. But even though he could say the most appalling things to the nicest individuals, he still felt a twinge of remorse when her eyes flickered.

  “You wouldn’t want to walk with me, Miss Briarley,” he warned. “I have a reputatio
n.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, even though she shouldn’t have acknowledged it. “Lady Maidenstone, will you accompany us?”

  Lady Maidenstone leaned in and whispered something to Lucretia. Lucretia shook her head sharply and stood up, holding her hand out until the girl took it. When Lady Maidenstone finally gave in, Lucretia turned to Thorington expectantly.

  There was nothing for it. He escorted the women from the room, knowing that every eye followed them but acting supremely unconcerned by that fact. But as soon as they were through the French doors and standing far enough from the open windows to avoid eavesdroppers, he turned back to Lucretia.

  “I should warn you, Miss Briarley, that if you think to trap me into marriage, I shall refuse to offer for you. You’ll be ruined if you attempt it.”

  Lucretia’s mouth dropped open. “Do you really think me capable of that?”

  Thorington shrugged. “I think most people are capable of most anything, given the right pressure. You are under pressure, are you not?”

  She exchanged a glance with Lady Maidenstone. The blonde gave her a speaking glare before turning away from them to look out over the formal gardens. She didn’t leave them unchaperoned, but it was clear she wanted no part in whatever Lucretia planned.

  Lucretia sighed. “I wouldn’t trap you. But I’ll admit that I would like to marry you. Would you consider offering for me?”

  Thorington, for once, was outflanked. “I beg your pardon, Miss Briarley?”

  She turned to face him. The sunlight in her eyes showed he hadn’t cowed her. Instead, she was determined, even though there was something in her face that suggested she’d taken a strong dislike to him. He’d heard enough about her to understand her desire to save Maidenstone for herself. But the purely mercenary set of her mouth, so unusual for a sheltered woman of her age and class, was a shock.

  “You may ask me for my hand as though I hadn’t offered it, if you prefer,” she said. “I know some men would take offense at being offered for. But I’ve heard you aren’t stiff with tradition.”

  “I am flattered,” he said. “But I’ve no wish for a bride.”

  “Even if it brought you enough money to save your estate?”

  “My estate isn’t in any danger.”

  He said it easily enough. But Lucretia didn’t seem convinced. “You asked for an invitation to this party, which must mean you need to marry one of us. What I’ve read about you suggests you’ve had a run of bad luck. And you were the only guest whose correspondence from his business manager preceded him. Marry me and your luck will change.”

  “I make my own luck,” Thorington said. “Marrying you isn’t in the cards.”

  She looked up at him, shading her eyes with her hand. She looked as young as she was for a moment — only twenty-three, and a rather sheltered twenty-three. He didn’t have a conscience, but he had enough imagination left to speculate about her — about how her upbringing, and too much time with the irascible Earl of Maidenstone, might make her too bold in some ways, too innocent in others.

  But helping her wasn’t his plan, unless Anthony decided she was the one for him.

  She still hadn’t spoken. He shifted his weight and tried for a smile. “I would eat you alive, my dear. Find a boy who will worship you. Any number of guests at this party would fit the bill.”

  She dropped her hand and shook her head. “They are mostly ineffectual or incompetent. Maidenstone needs someone stronger than that.”

  “And your needs?”

  “I need Maidenstone,” she said.

  Lucretia didn’t embellish her statement. That flinty look was back. If she was too bold for her own good, it came from a vast reservoir of determination. And all her determination was focused on Maidenstone, to the exclusion of all else.

  “I wish you happy with the man who may help you to save it,” he said, more gently than he was usually capable of. “But I am not the one for you.”

  Lucretia sighed. She looked beyond him, toward the house that loomed behind him. A shadow of emotion moved over her face, passing so quickly that he wouldn’t have seen it had he not been observing her closely.

  And he wouldn’t have recognized it if he didn’t feel the same need.

  “I can’t lose,” she said, almost to herself. “I mustn’t.”

  Lady Maidenstone rejoined them. The girl had taken a few steps away from them during Lucretia’s attempt to proposition him, but she must have heard everything. She took Lucretia’s hand. “Come inside, dear,” she said, sounding older than Thorington knew her to be. She had glared at Lucretia before, but now she was soft, sympathetic. “We shall find someone better able to appreciate your virtues.”

  He stayed outside as they returned to the party. For a moment, he considered the idea of marrying Lucretia and giving Callista to Anthony — if Rafe would consent to marry Octavia, they were guaranteed to win Maidenstone Abbey.

  But he dismissed that thought as soon as he had it. Rafe didn’t need a wife — he needed something that would soothe his demons, and Thorington didn’t think any of the Briarleys could do it for him. And Lucretia’s dowry couldn’t pull Thorington out of debt for more than a few months.

  Still, he sympathized with her, if only a little. She couldn’t have taken it well when her grandfather had set up this contest. She must have taken it even less well that she was forced to play the hostess for the gathering that might see her lose the house.

  She was not his concern, though. He needed to capture Callista and convince Anthony to marry her — between Callista and Lucretia, there was no contest. Every fortune-hunter at Maidenstone would target Callista as soon as they saw her.

  And he was enough of a fortune-hunter to know she wouldn’t be pleased to be hunted.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At a quarter to five, Callie stood outside one of Maidenstone’s drawing rooms and willed herself to focus. Her hair, mostly dry after a bath that had felt woefully quick, was stuffed into the most secure chignon Mrs. Jennings was capable of. She wore her best white muslin, spangled with an intricate design in silver thread down the front and around the hem. Her dressmaker in Baltimore had cut it according to a fashion plate from one of Ackermann’s 1811 volumes. She had never been invited to something to which she might have worn it in Baltimore, and she had looked forward to wearing it here.

  But now, she took a deep breath as she stared at the carved door frame. She realized, suddenly, horribly, that if she let it out all at once, she might scream.

  Between Lucretia and the man in the woods — a duke, because of course he was a duke, and not someone she could avoid for the duration of the party — she’d used up her bravado. She pictured herself walking into a grandly perfect drawing room, with a lot of grandly perfect people, wearing a dress that had once been perfect but was now at least two years out of fashion…

  She had thought she was ready for whatever she would have to do to marry someone appropriate for her ends. But the reality of it — the crowd, the surroundings, the man from the woods — wasn’t something she had prepared for.

  She let her breath go slowly, through lips pursed tight enough to keep her scream inside. She wasn’t going to let herself fall apart now.

  She could do this. She had successfully managed a shipping company. She had run the British blockade. She had survived a sea battle.

  Surely she could walk into a drawing room.

  Surely she could ignore the way the man — the duke — preferred to look at her, as though luring her to her doom.

  Callie walked through the open double doors. The sound in the room fell away, then renewed itself with more sibilant undercurrents.

  She could tell herself that they weren’t whispering about her. But she didn’t believe it.

  “Miss Callista Briarley,” the butler announced in his stiffest, most disapproving tones.

  The whispers doubled. They were a current that carried the tidings of her arrival into the farthest reaches of the connected rooms, ri
ppling away from her, uncontrollable.

  She instinctively started to twist her hands together in front of her, a defensive posture fit for a penitent instead of a conqueror. But she took a breath and touched the sapphire pendant at her neck instead. It was the bauble Captain Jacobs had promised her from Crescendo. It hadn’t convinced her that privateering was a safe endeavor, but she was rather fond of it.

  She was more daring than anyone in the room. Surely she could take another step.

  She didn’t know where she was going. But she couldn’t hide in the corner. Nor could she avert her eyes from those who examined her as though she was a hideous curiosity in the most macabre curio cabinet.

  Briarley contra mundum. She walked straight ahead, nodding politely at anyone who caught her gaze, proceeding as though she knew what she was doing. She passed through the first drawing room without anyone stopping to greet her.

  The second drawing room was no better. The only people she recognized were the Duke of Thorington’s siblings. She steeled herself to join them, hoping Lady Serena and Lady Portia, at least, would be friendly. They hadn’t seemed friendly earlier, but anyone was better than Lucretia.

  But before she reached them, a different party intercepted her.

  “Miss Briarley,” the first man exclaimed. He grabbed her by both arms and kissed first one cheek, then the other. “I had begun to fear for your health.”

  His greeting shocked her, but she reminded herself that this wasn’t Baltimore and she didn’t really know what to expect. So she smiled rather than pushing him away. “No need to fear for my health. I’ve a strong constitution.”

  “You very nearly missed the start of the party. I thought I’d given you enough time to reach us, but travel can be so unpredictable.”

  She didn’t have any idea who the rest of the party were — another man, who had rolled his eyes as the first man had kissed her, and two beautiful brunettes in exquisite evening dresses. But Callie guessed who the man who’d greeted her must be. “Are you the Duke of Rothwell?”