The Story of a Baron (The Sisters of the Aristocracy)

by Linda Rae Sande

  “My lady, I really wonder if you should be reading this particular chapter,” Jeffrey said as he straightened on the floral settee and pulled the book entirely onto his lap. Although he could see any other aristocrat identifying with the antics of the Five Lords of Bad Behavior, he certainly didn’t expect a young lady – a gently bred sister and daughter of an earl – to do so.

  Evangeline shrugged. “It’s fine, my lord,” she answered, reaching over to pull the book back onto her thigh. She continuing to read about the five card players as if she hadn’t been interrupted.

  When the baron didn’t say anything in response, she tore her attention from the book and gave him a glance. “Has this happened to you?” she asked suddenly. “The reference to Black’s is obviously meant to be White’s, I would think,” she said with a wave of one hand.

  Although Jeffrey thought her reaction should have been one of far more ... shock, he considered her comment and nodded. “I have been, and, yes, I agree. I do think Anonymous is referring to White’s,” he said reluctantly.

  Damn! I hadn’t even considered this book might be read by a woman, he once again thought in dismay. He hadn’t given a thought to the curse words or swearing that occurred throughout the tale, how coarse gentlemen could be when women weren’t present. But not once had Lady Evangeline gasped or given any indication she found the text in the book objectionable. Perhaps the finishing school she attended wasn’t as proper as it should have been, he thought absently. Or maybe this book was tame compared to all the others she had read.

  The thought had him gazing at the hundreds of titles that lined the walls of the library, secretly happy that most were not fiction but rather books about scientific subjects.

  “Are you finished with this page?” Evangeline asked as she raised her eyes to meet his.

  Jeffrey blinked. “Oh, yes,” he replied, quickly turning to the next page.

  Chapter 21

  Chapter Five: Continued

  “Come, gentleman, let’s have them all,” the duke said, his fingers still motioning to the other four card players around the table. When no additional cards appeared, Abdington gave Ballantine a pointed look.

  The baron sighed and pulled a king from his sleeve. The rest of the aristocrats at the table began to laugh. “A king?” they questioned in disbelief. “Is that the best you could do?”

  Ballantine shrugged. “Obviously, since you had all the aces,” he countered, not the least bit embarrassed at having been caught with a king. Especially when everyone else had displayed far more aces than occurred in a single – or even double – deck of cards.

  Viscount Barrick cleared his throat. “I do hope you all received my invitations for tomorrow’s tête-a-tête in the park,” he said, as if he’d been waiting for the perfect opportunity to bring it up. There were murmurs of acknowledgement around the table. “My wife’s birthday is tomorrow. I’m surprising her with a small gathering,” he added proudly.

  The duke shuffled the cards and then dealt a round. “I have news from my wife,” he stated as he picked up his cards and gave them a quick perusal.

  “Oh?” Atherton remarked, giving his own cards far more attention than the duke did his.

  “She is breeding again,” Abdington stated proudly. “With any luck, she’ll give me a spare, and I can be done with visits to her bedchamber.”

  Murmurs of agreement sounded from around the table, but Matthew looked up from his cards. “Is she ... not agreeable in her bedchamber?” he wondered, thinking he would certainly appreciate being able to visit a wife’s bedchamber. He wasn’t yet married. And he had no real prospects at the moment given Lady Lydia had agreed to marry Lord Farrington’s youngest son – a son who wouldn’t even have a title unless his six older brothers all expired from too much drink and whoring.

  He briefly thought of Geraldine, but tried to put thoughts of her out of his mind. He hadn’t heard from the chit, but he was sure his missive had been delivered shortly after her return to Rosehill House. He’d written it just moments after arriving at his own townhouse, and he sent it with a footman who boasted that he could run a mile in under five minutes.

  “She’s a wife,” Abdington answered Matthew’s query without a hint of humor. “Merely doing her duty as a good duchess should.”

  Matthew flinched at the duke’s comment, thinking his preference would be to find a wife who would welcome him into their marriage bed. A wife who would know she was welcome to come to his should she desire.

  Desire.

  The word conjured images of Geraldine Porterhouse. Of her dressed in nothing more than his bed linens. Of her golden blonde hair splayed out on his pillow, making her look angelic when any man with eyes could see she was the devil’s temptress. Of her milky white skin flushing with his every caress, his every kiss. Of how she would return the favor, leaving a trail of kisses down his chest and belly, her breasts capturing his engorged manhood between their soft swells and delivering it, ever so slowly, to her sweet lips for a final hard and thorough kiss before she would beg him to take her. To make her his.

  Christ! Did the woman have any idea how truly naughty she could be? Of how naughty she could make a perfectly respectable man like him? She was worse than a mistress. Worse than a courtesan. Worse than a tavern doxy or a lightskirt in Wapping.

  Matthew straightened suddenly, realizing the breeches he wore couldn’t begin to accommodate the growing evidence of his arousal. He leaned back into his original position.

  “Have you lined up a new lay?” Abdington wondered suddenly, his attention on the baron.

  Matthew blinked, wondering if the duke had somehow peeked beneath the card table and seen the evidence of his arousal. When he realized the timing of Abdington’s question was merely a coincidence, he wished the attention wasn’t suddenly on him. “I have not,” he replied with a quick shake of his head.

  The comment seemed to bother the duke. “Do we need to arrange an introduction to someone delectable?” Abdington wondered, a bushy eyebrow arcing up. “I am quite sure we can find the perfect bedmate for you,” he offered, collecting the pasteboards into a neat pile so he could shuffle them.

  Shaking his head, Matthew replied, “Thank you, but not at this time. Given the requirements on my time right now, I’m afraid I would neglect a mistress.”

  Atherton frowned as he regarded the baron. Then his face brightened. “Trouble in the barony?” he wondered, with perhaps a bit more glee than was warranted. The Ballantine barony wasn’t particularly large, nor did it offer much in the way of industry or agriculture.

  Matthew resisted the urge to flinch and instead gave a quick shake of his head. “Not at all. Just ... busy is all,” he mumbled. Busy trying to pay bills. Busy trying to balance books that could not be balanced given the current coffers. To add the cost of a mistress would simply bring him closer to receivership. The very last he wanted was for the Ballantine entailed properties to end up in the hands of the Crown.

  So, what were his options? Debtor’s prison? He could curse his father (and had many times), for the fifth baron of Ballantine had been the one to gamble away the assets of the barony and leave his only son with a trail of markers from here to Whitechapel to pay. Most of those hadn’t made themselves apparent until long after his father’s death, when weasels began appearing flanked by large, burly men with fists the size of ham hocks. He’d paid because he could – there were some monies back then – but when the bank accounts dwindled, he employed a solicitor to look into filing charges of extortion against the less-than-honorable collectors. That tactic had worked to get rid of the weasels. It didn’t work for the monthly bills that continued to amass – bills for the ongoing expenses of a barony which didn’t offer much in the way of industry or agriculture.

  Matthew’s only option, one that had come to him just that afternoon as his town coach car
ried him from New Bond Street to his small house in Mayfair, was to acquire a dowry. Which meant acquiring a wife with a dowry. Which meant getting married.

  Geraldine Porterhouse, the daughter of an earl, was purported to have a respectable dowry along with a reputation that was not so respectable.

  Having spent most of the card game imagining Lady Geraldine naked and acting every bit the devil’s mistress, it was no wonder she had such a sullied reputation. Was it any wonder he lost nearly every hand of whist?

  And what would be so wrong with marrying Geraldine? He had known the chit since she was in leading strings. She’d probably allowed him his first kiss, although a memory of her slapping him rather hard across the face suddenly flashed in his mind.

  Funny how a man’s memory could conveniently forget such an event.

  Perhaps she hadn’t allowed the kiss.

  But now? Now that she was rumored to have shared her favors with no less than three gentlemen, she would probably be a bit more tolerant of his attempt should he decide a kiss was necessary before the proposal.

  Matthew briefly wondered who the three lucky gentlemen were. Had they promised marriage only to gain her favors? Or had her reputation for being fast given them reason to accost her? No one had ever mentioned names as they spread the on-dit.

  So, he would have a wife with a bit of ... experience. His nether region suddenly reacted again, making him shift in his chair.

  What would it be like to have a wife who behaved as a mistress? The thought was simply too much for his breeches, and he was forced to turn his thoughts to more practical matters.

  Geraldine Porterhouse was the daughter of an earl. A woman of the ton. It wasn’t as if he had others in mind for his marriage bed.

  But what benefit would she gain by marrying him? Besides his protection and the likelihood the rumors would be curtailed or stopped altogether? That alone should be enough to convince her to accept an offer, he considered. And then there was the title of ‘baroness,’ he realized. Although it wasn’t as lofty as duchess or marchioness or countess or viscountess, it was still a title she didn’t currently possess. She would be my baroness. Lady Geraldine Winters.

  Matthew sighed, rather liking the idea of being married to Geraldine.

  So, now he just had to court her. Starting tomorrow, he hoped.

  Matthew sighed again.

  Well, that probably wasn’t going to happen, he considered. The woman hadn’t even responded to his invitation for a ride to Lady Barrick’s birthday party. Although, to be fair, his missive had been written rather hastily upon his return from New Bond Street.

  He glanced at Barrick, silently thanking the man for being Scotch enough not to hire a secretary to pen his correspondence. Having read the man’s initial invitation for the picnic he planned – or perhaps it was his housekeeper, given the fact that Barrick was incapable of planning anything other than a trip to Black’s – Matthew realized the man’s ambitious plan to round up all of Lady Barrick’s friends and bring them en masse to Hyde Park couldn’t work. There wasn’t a carriage large enough for such an endeavor.

  Matthew thought to capitalize on an opportunity to spend a half-hour or so alone with Miss Porterhouse by offering her a ride in his barouche. And even if her maid had to tag along to act as a chaperone, Geraldine would probably prefer a private ride than endure being stuffed like a sausage into the Barrick barouche.

  Having given up on the idea of courting Geraldine the following day, Matthew didn’t think to check for messages when he returned home from Black’s later that night. In fact, it wasn’t until the next day when his batman delivered the day’s post during breakfast that he discovered Geraldine Porterhouse had indeed responded to his query.

  Suddenly nervous, Matthew loosened the wax seal from the white parchment and unfolded the note. He read the feminine script three times before setting it aside.

  It seemed he would indeed be escorting the earl’s sister for a ride to the picnic.

  Well, two o’clock couldn’t come soon enough, he decided as he regarded the remains of his breakfast. Best he get started on thinking up a way to inform Geraldine’s brother. After all, he had no hope of gaining the woman’s hand if he didn’t have permission to court her.

  Chapter 22

  A Late Night Read

  Restless and still wide awake, Evangeline wandered through the rooms on the second floor of Rosemount House. The dim light from the lamp she carried wavered about, casting eerie shadows on the walls. She stepped into the mistress suite, inhaling deeply in the hope of capturing the scent of her late mother. A whiff of rosewater was all she could smell, though. At least the maids were diligent about keeping the room clean.

  Setting the lamp on the dressing table, she took a seat and regarded the hinged box set in the middle of the vanity. She thought about Geraldine Porterhouse and her desire for baubles as she allowed a string of her mother’s pearls to slip over her fingers. Had Eva Tennison requested her husband buy them for some ball or soirée? Or had he bought them as a gift for his beloved wife? Evangeline thought perhaps it was the latter. The little she could remember of her mother suggested the wisp of a woman was sweet natured and easily satisfied – quite unlike the materialistic Geraldine.

  Why would Anonymous have made his lead female character such a selfish woman? she wondered. There was no doubt Geraldine and Ballantine would end up married in the end. But what kind of union could they have if she were never satisfied with where she lived, or with what she wore, or with the baubles in her jewelry box? How long could the baron abide her endless demands?

  Forever.

  Suddenly remembering the last line of the book, Evangeline felt a shiver pass through her.

  Poor Ballantine.

  Forever broke.

  Picking through the gold and sliver trinkets in the velvet-lined box, Evangeline paused as her finger hooked onto a gold ring. Adorned with a single large sapphire, the band glimmered in the candlelight. Evangeline held it up to the lamp, admiring the color. The engraving, a tiny script wrapped around the inside of the band, required she lift her glasses onto the end of her nose. “For my forever love, Eva. Your devoted Harold.”

  Evangeline straightened, stunned by the simple words. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Forever. Slipping the ring onto a finger, she held out her hand and admired the sapphire against her pale fingers. Had this ring been her mother’s wedding band? Or a ring her father had bestowed on her for a special occasion?

  Thinking she would ask her brother, she was about to examine the rest of the jewelry when the sound of a knock at the front door broke the silence. Startled, Evangeline wondered who might be paying a call so late. Her brother was still away – perhaps a friend of his thought him already back in London. Or perhaps it was a note from the earl, letting her know his ship had docked in Wapping.

  Curious, Evangeline descended the steps, hurrying toward the vestibule. She recognized the sound of Baron Sommers’ hushed tones even before she spied him from the hall.

  “Lord Everly isn’t in residence, my lord,” Jones said with a shake of his head. “Shall I leave word you called?”

  The baron lowered his eyes and paused before replying. “I was actually calling on Lady Evangeline. I know it’s late, but I ...”

  “Lord Sommers!” Evangeline interrupted before the butler could respond. “It’s so very good to see you again. I hope all is well?”

  Jeffrey’s face brightened at the sight of Evangeline. “My lady,” he said with a bow. “I apologize for calling so late ...”

  “Do come in,” Evangeline stated, waving him into the hall. “Jones, could you please see that tea is delivered to the parlor?”

  Before the butler had a chance to raise a protest, Evangeline had hooked an arm into Jeffrey’s and was leading him to the main floor parlor. “To wh
at do I owe the honor of your presence this evening?” she wondered, glad for the interruption and even more glad that he had come to pay a call on her and not on her brother.

  “Curiosity, I’m afraid,” the baron replied with a pained expression. “My lady, I have spent the entire day wondering about Ballantine and Miss Porterhouse,” he admitted. “I simply cannot sleep until I know what has happened with their ride in the park.”

  Evangeline stared at Jeffrey, wondering if he’d been thinking the same things as she had. “I find myself in a similar quandary,” she replied before moving to the sideboard. “Would you care for a scotch? Or something else stronger than tea, perhaps?” she offered, realizing he would probably be at White’s this time of the night.

  Jeffrey joined her at the sideboard. “You make an excellent hostess,” he said quietly, reaching for a crystal decanter. “But I’ve got this.” He poured two fingers of scotch into one of the glasses and started to return the decanter to its salver. “Did you ..?” He paused, wondering if she had intended to pour a glass for herself. “Want scotch?” he finally managed to get out. “Or ..?” he glanced about the sideboard and noticed several bottles. “Madeira or claret?”

  Her face pinking up, Evangeline shook her head. “No, my lord. Tea will be fine for me.” The sound of a throat clearing had her turning her attention to the door whilst she was sure Jeffrey took an entire step backwards.

  The butler stood on the threshold with a tea service and an expression on his face that suggested he was none too pleased with Lord Sommers’ presence in the parlor. “Tea, my lady,” he said in his rich baritone.

  “Thank you, Jones. On the table in front of the settee is fine,” Evangeline said as she waved to the low table. She moved to serve herself as the butler held his ground next to the table. Sensing his distrust, Evangeline said, “Lord Sommers and I are going to continue our reading. From the same book,” she explained in a quiet voice. “But we’ll be no more than an hour,” she added when she saw her words weren’t changing Jones’ disposition.