‘Your wife?’ Hugo’s astonishment was perhaps too overt and Clevedon looked up with suddenly narrowed eyes.
‘Why ever not?’ he said, evenly. ‘A man in my position must marry eventually. The Beauchamp chit is as good as any.’
Hugo racked his brain to come up with a mental picture of Cheriton’s daughter. Their paths rarely crossed; young ladies in their first Season held no appeal for him and he, as a younger son with no prospects, held even less appeal for them. Or for their parents. Lady Olivia Beauchamp. He remembered her now: a true beauty, with a willowy figure and the same black hair and silver-grey eyes as her sire. And utterly innocent. Anger stirred, deep in his gut.
What the hell is Beauchamp about, bringing his sister here and then abandoning her?
‘I never had you down as the marrying kind, Clevedon.’
Hugo had always suspected the other man’s proclivities, but that was a delicate—not to say, illegal—matter and not one he could even mention, although he was aware Clevedon was not the first man to prefer the company of other men and neither would he be the last. He could see now that Clevedon’s suggestion of a kiss in payment for the debt had been an elaborate ruse... Clevedon had known damned well that the Lady Olivia Beauchamp would never consent to walking down those shady pathways with him. He had well and truly hooked her in.
Clevedon shrugged. ‘It is not by choice, dear boy, but I find myself in need of a wife with a wealthy father. And they don’t come much wealthier than Cheriton. Besides, our marriage would be one of pure convenience. My life need not change.’
Distaste mushroomed in Hugo’s gut. Lady Olivia might be a spoilt little rich girl who wanted for nothing—and a foolish chit for taking the risks she had tonight—and yet he could still find sympathy for a young girl who would marry with high hopes only to find her dreams dashed by the indifference and neglect of her husband.
His face must have revealed his feelings because Clevedon laughed out loud.
‘Scruples, my dear Hugo? Surely not.’
Hugo stood up. ‘I don’t approve of playing games with innocents.’
‘Needs must, dear boy. Needs must. It would not be my choice were things different, but her dowry will compensate for the inconvenience. And, of course, there will be the added bonus of marrying into such a powerful family.’
‘You think you can force Cheriton into agreeing to a marriage?’
Clevedon shrugged again. ‘Why not? When a juicy plum like the Catch of the Season drops into one’s lap, it would be remiss not to take advantage. And now, with this,’ he held the sparkling necklace aloft, ‘I have the means to exert a little additional persuasion, shall we say.’
Hugo tried to mask his revulsion at what Clevedon had in store for the girl. Marrying money was one thing. Ruining a girl’s reputation and innocence in order to force a wedding was beyond the pale, particularly when the man had no taste for female flesh.
‘Look here, Alastair. It was her decision to come here, presumably against Cheriton’s orders.’ Clevedon shrugged. ‘If she wants to play with the grown-ups, she must accept the consequences, as must her fool of a brother. He, too, will get his comeuppance very soon, if I’m not mistaken.’
His words resurrected a memory from earlier that evening—Sir Peter Tadlow cajoling Marie Shelton, ‘Please, Marie’, until Marie, with an irritated huff, had flounced out of the supper box and intercepted Beauchamp, Wolfe and their female companion. Tadlow had followed Marie from the box and not returned. Not that that was any loss—Hugo never had taken to the man. But he had wondered at the time why Marie—mercenary to her core—was bothering with Lord Alexander Beauchamp, whose pockets always seemed to be to let, even with a father like the Duke of Cheriton, who was rich as Croesus. Why had she draped herself all over Beauchamp and plied him with punch before enticing him away from the supper box? And where did Tadlow fit in?
‘What was Marie up to, with young Beauchamp?’
Clevedon’s eyes gleamed. ‘What do you think? Use your imagination, Alastair, do. I declare, you are growing dull of late.’
‘Yes. But why?’ Watching young Beauchamp had put Hugo in mind of his younger self—a young man on the path to self-destruction. ‘And where did Tadlow disappear to?’
Clevedon sighed. ‘You are like a dog with a bone, Alastair.’ He slipped the necklace into his pocket. ‘Tadlow,’ he said, with exaggerated patience, ‘was keen to avoid being seen by Beauchamp. He’s got some scheme or other planned.’
‘Scheme?’
Clevedon shrugged. ‘Something about revenge on Cheriton—seems he interfered in some plan Tadlow had to wed Bulbridge to Lady Helena Caldicot. Tadlow’s her uncle on her mother’s side.’
Sir Peter Tadlow and Viscount Bulbridge—and Bulbridge’s cousin, Douglas Randall—were recent additions to Hugo’s circle and he could not like any of them. All three were the sort of dissolute fellows that should serve as a stellar warning to unwary young bucks: Look closely, lads, for here lies your future. An unwary young buck such as he had been at the age of seventeen when he had set out to squeeze every last drop of pleasure from life without regard to the consequences.
Dear God. That was nine years ago!
‘Anyway,’ Clevedon continued, ‘Cheriton stuck his nose in, as is his wont, and put a stop to it so they’re out to bleed him through his son. Tadlow reckons Cheriton owes him. And young Beauchamp can look after himself—it’s no different for him than it is for his silly sister. If they come out to play with the adults, they must be prepared.’ He smiled wolfishly. ‘Now, much as I enjoy your oh-so-charming company, Alastair, old man, I think I shall join the others next door. Coming?’
Hugo could stomach no more tonight.
‘No. I’m off to my club. I’ll say goodnight.’
He left the box and plunged into the crowds, sick with disgust as he wondered why the hell he was still hanging around with Clevedon and his ilk, with their louche, care-for-nothing ways. Hugo might have always been wild and reckless, but he would never deliberately ruin an innocent girl for the sake of money and he would never stoop to using a young man to wreak revenge on his father. It was almost as though a veil had lifted from his eyes and he saw for the first time some of their true characters.
He had only attended tonight because it was Clevedon’s birthday, but he’d already decided it was time to stop socialising with this crowd altogether. In the past year or so he had gradually clawed his way out of the swamp of vices that had held him captive for so long, but he was aware it would be all too easy to slide back into the mire. A few too many drinks, and judgement and common sense were pissed down the gutter along with the alcohol.
Anger at the way the two youngsters had been targeted by Tadlow and Clevedon continued to gnaw at Hugo as he strolled through the hordes gathering to enjoy the fireworks display. Of the two, Clevedon was the most dangerous because he was welcomed almost everywhere in the ton and far more readily than Hugo himself was accepted. Parents fawned over him, eager for a title for their daughters and, if his plan to compromise her succeeded, he was the sort of man Cheriton might very well accept as a husband for his daughter.
Even though he told himself he would not put himself out—it was none of his business, after all—still Hugo found himself watching out for a figure in a midnight-blue velvet domino.
She’d said she had no money. Had she found her brother? Or Wolfe? They’d both been well on the way to being foxed anyway, as had Lady Olivia. And guilt mixed in with the disquiet as it continued to spiral through him—guilt over his own part in topping up her glass, time after time. It made no difference to tell himself he wouldn’t have done it if he’d realised who she was...how young she was...how innocent. He still felt responsible.
And it is my doing that she lost so heavily. I provoked her into agreeing those high stakes.
He stopped dead. People jostled around him, loudly comp
laining, but he ignored them. Then he cursed, fluently, beneath his breath. It went against the grain, but he felt compelled to look. To at least try to make sure she was all right...that she had found her brother. He gazed around. But how on earth could he locate her in this heaving mass of humanity? Where would she go? He bit back another curse as realisation dawned. She would stay near the supper box, in the hope that either her brother or Wolfe would return for her. He turned and shoved his way back through the crowd, until Clevedon’s box was in sight, and...there.
‘Bloody hellfire!’
She was close to the box, but not close enough to be visible to the occupants, and she was surrounded by several young men. One of them had his arm around her shoulders and was trying to pull down her hood, but she was fighting him off—verbally as well as physically, from what Hugo could make out. The lads surrounding Olivia were not gentlemen—probably clerks or some such, out for a good time—which was just as well because by the time Hugo reached them, Olivia’s hood was down, her hair was awry and her face unmasked. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, but they nevertheless fired ice shards at her tormentors as she berated them. As he came within hearing distance, Hugo bit back a grin to hear her spitting a variety of insults.
‘You vile worms! Churls! Scabs! Sodden-witted knaves! Leave me alone, or I’ll kick you so hard you won’t remember your own name for a month!’
The surrounding youths were laughing at her...mocking...and Hugo could see the effort it cost her to hold tears at bay.
He stepped into the fray.
Chapter Three
‘Enough!’ He faced the lad who was taunting Olivia by waving her mask above his head, its ribbons dangling and dancing. He held out one hand. ‘I’ll take that.’
The lad exchanged looks with his friends. ‘And who might you be? The little tart gave it me as a tro— Argh...’
Hugo’s fingers tightened around the youth’s throat, causing his eyes to bulge.
‘I said... I. Will. Take. That.’
A ragged but muted cheer sounded from some of the onlookers as Hugo continued to hold the youth high, by the neck, allowing just the tips of his toes to scrape the ground. It took no time for the lad to capitulate. He thrust the mask into Hugo’s face. Hugo took it, releasing him, and, as her tormentor slumped to the ground, Hugo faced Olivia. She was shaking, her eyes suspiciously luminous, but she held herself straight, her nose in the air, as she accepted the mask, tied it back in place and pulled her hood over her head.
‘Thank you.’ She began to walk away.
For God’s sake! Where does she think she is going?
With two strides he caught up with her and grabbed her by the arm, spinning her around to face him. She wrenched her arm free.
‘Leave me alone.’
‘How do you mean to get home?’
‘I shall find my brother.’
‘And if you don’t? And if you get accosted again? The next men might not be inclined to leave it at teasing.’
She elevated her nose. Again. Really, she was beyond hoity. He was almost inclined to leave her to it, if she was this stubborn.
Almost.
‘I shall escort you home.’
She was slowly but surely backing away from him. With a growl that originated deep, deep inside him, Hugo followed her and grabbed her arm again.
‘Let go of me.’
Those amazing eyes of hers shot icy slivers at him. What would they look like, fired with passion rather than fury? Would they—? He batted those errant thoughts aside. She was eighteen years old...had only just made her debut in society.
‘With what will you pay a jarvey to drive you home, Lady Olivia?’
He used her name deliberately, so she would know he recognised her. Her eyes flared.
‘You have no money, or you would have paid Clevedon,’ he reminded her.
She gasped at that, her worry palpable. ‘D-does Lord Clevedon know it was me? What if he tells my father?’
‘No. He does not know.’ The urge to soothe her took him unawares. Besides, there was no point in her fretting when he knew damned well Clevedon would never tell her father about tonight.
‘So, how will you get home if you don’t find your brother?’ he went on, ruthlessly. ‘Will you pay your fare with your bracelet?’
He raised her arm and the jewels caught the light, winking ice and fire.
‘Or maybe an eardrop?’
He slid his hand under her hood, skimming the satin-soft skin of her neck, and found her earlobe, tugging at it gently. Her breath quickened, her bosom heaving, and he snatched his hand away before he gave in to his instincts...the ones clamouring at him to haul her into his arms and to kiss some sense into her. He grasped her wrist. Firmly.
‘You’re coming with me,’ he rasped out and began to stride in the direction of the water gate, towing her along behind him.
‘Wh-where are you taking me?’
The fear in her voice had him slamming to a halt. He clenched his jaw.
‘Home,’ he gritted out. ‘And, before you ask, yes...your home.’
‘I... I won’t go without my brother.’
‘Your brother? Well, and where is he?’ Hugo flung his arm wide, almost knocking a passing gentleman’s hat from his head. ‘If he is supposed to be looking out for you tonight, he’s making a poor fist of it, that’s all I can say. I am not spending all night searching for your ramshackle brother when he clearly doesn’t give a da—hoot that he’s left you on your own in among this sort of crowd. I’m taking you home. Then I can return to my own plans for the evening.’
With that, he whirled around and set off again, his hand still clamped around her wrist.
He did not dare to slow his stride—she would only argue again. The sooner he delivered the troublesome minx home, the sooner he could forget all about her and her risk-taking, and her luminous, hypnotic eyes that reminded him of the moon and were fringed by the thickest, darkest, longest lashes he had ever seen.
Temptress eyes.
They soon reached Vauxhall Stairs and the water gate. A boat was already waiting and they embarked, along with several other passengers, some of whom Hugo knew. He nodded a greeting, but then pointedly directed his gaze across the river to discourage conversation. If any of them should recognise Olivia...his stomach clenched. She would be well and truly compromised and there was no way he ever intended to wed, not after the wretched example of his parents’ union.
‘But what—?’
‘Be quiet,’ he growled, glaring down into those wide eyes that glittered at him from behind her mask. ‘We’ll talk later.’
He ignored her loud puff of exasperation, concentrating instead on the dark ripples of the Thames slipping past the boat as the oarsmen strained to reach the opposite bank.
They disembarked, still in silence. Olivia stumbled and Hugo steadied her, wrapping his arm around her waist.
‘Oops,’ she said, stifling a giggle.
She straightened and pulled away from him, but her progress was erratic as she made for a waiting hackney. Hardly surprising, given the number of times he had refilled her glass—and her readiness to drain it every time. Hugo instructed the jarvey to take them to Grosvenor Square, where Beauchamp House—the Duke of Cheriton’s London residence—was located, then he handed Olivia up the step and climbed in behind her.
‘Why did you stop me from speaking in the boat?’ Her voice quivered with indignation. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’
Hugo shifted on the seat so he was half-facing her, and folded his arms across his chest.
‘I am the man who is saving you from the results of your own folly.’
She pushed back her hood and tore off her mask. ‘Hmmph. Some saviour you are. I should not be alone with you like this. It is scandalous.’
Her pert little nose was in the a
ir again—she really was the most infuriating wench he had ever met.
‘More scandalous than you getting drunk and wandering around Vauxhall unescorted?’
‘I am not drunk. And I am masked. No one could recognise me. I know your reputation, Lord Hugo Alastair. You are the sort of man my aunt always warns me about. Well, you need not think you may take advantage of me, for I shall fight you and scream very loudly if you try to touch me.’
Her words might be full of bravado, but Hugo did not miss the way she shrank back into the corner of the hackney as she spoke them and the intermittent illumination from the street lamps as they passed revealed her hands gripping one another so tightly they shook.
He sighed. ‘I have no intention of touching you, Lady Olivia. I prefer my ladies willing. And experienced.’
Her eyes flashed at that but, thankfully, she remained silent.
‘I was impressed by your vocabulary back there,’ he said. Talking would, surely, help take her mind from their situation. And his. ‘Where did you learn such insults?’
‘Shakespeare,’ she replied, haughtily. ‘I am surprised you did not recognise them. I presume you did study his works at school?’
Impertinent little... He swallowed his irritation. ‘I did. Although I believe it is sodden-witted lords, not knaves.’
She glared at him. ‘Why would I call them lords? I was insulting them.’
‘They are not the typical words one might expect from a young lady.’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve heard Alex use them.’
Her brother again: Lord Alexander Beauchamp...younger son of the Duke of Cheriton and as wild as they come. Although what his excuse might be, with such a decent and supportive father, unlike Hugo’s—
He clamped down on that memory there and then. He would not allow himself to remember his childhood or his brutal father. It was shut up tight in a dark corner of his memory—a corner he refused to revisit.
‘Your brother should have more sense than to utter such words in your hearing.’
‘You sound just like Dominic. That’s what he always says. But Alex...you do not understand. Alex is...’
Lady Olivia and the Infamous Rake Page 3