The Incomparable Miss Compton

by Regina Scott

  “Fah on the country,” Persephone declared, showing that she had been listening to their conversation for all her admirers were still talking to her. “I could not live the sedate life Sarah craves.”

  “To each his own,” Sarah said with evident stubbornness. “Now surely we have better things to discuss than my simple preferences.”

  “Quite right,“ muttered the short fellow. Malcolm shook his head, offering his shoulder to the rudesby.

  “On the contrary, Miss Compton,” he assured her. “I for one would like to hear all about your preferences.”

  Persephone sucked in a breath. The duke quirked a smile.

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “You are too kind, my lord. I would not presume to bore you.”

  “I’m sure nothing you can say would bore me,” Malcolm replied. Conscious of Persephone and her suitors watching with varying degrees of interest, he rose. “However, it strikes me that what I have to say should be said in private. Would you grant me the honor of an audience, my dear?”

  Persephone darted forward to touch his sleeve. “My lord? Are you certain you will not stay?”

  Malcolm lifted her hand away. “Quite certain, Miss Persephone. Your servant, as are all others in this room. Excuse us, please, gentlemen.”

  The beaus bowed, and the duke inclined his head, even as Sarah rose.

  “This way, my lord,” she said, and he liked the thought that she sounded just the least bit breathless. She glided from the room with Malcolm following. The last glimpse he had of Persephone Compton was her perfect mouth in the shape of a perfect circle of amazement.

  Chapter Eight

  Sarah felt as if her stays had suddenly tightened. She could barely breath, and her heart was hammering so hard she was amazed it didn’t burst from her chest. She was equally amazed she could put one foot before the other, yet she managed to walk across the hall to the library and motion Malcolm Breckonridge into one of the leather-backed chairs waiting there.

  The library was a proper room, all leather-bound books and gleaming wood surfaces. The library was a place to conduct business, a place to educate oneself. Unfortunately, sitting across from him, watching the late afternoon sun from the tall windows make silver highlights in his dark hair, she found herself unable to speak. This would never do. She cleared her throat and met his gaze. There was nothing guarded in his movements or demeanor. He obviously knew what he wanted and was secure in the outcome. She didn’t know whether she had the strength to hear him out.

  She forced herself to sit politely, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She was glad she wore gloves, for surely her knuckles were turning white.

  “I don’t intend to eat you,” he said gently.

  She managed a smile. “I did not think that you did, my lord. I must admit, however, that I am at a loss as to why you might wish to speak with me in private.” Unless, of course, he wanted to ask about Persephone. She found she did not have sufficient Christian charity to wish that to be the case.

  “I understand my request might seem rather hasty,” he agreed easily. “However, I hope you will hear me out. I have a proposal for you, one I believe will benefit us both.” He paused to eye her, and she could not even draw a breath. He could not mean the kind of proposal she thought he meant. Yet her heart leaped at the thought. The mighty Malcolm Breckonridge, swept away as easily as the least of Persephone’s beaus, by a sweet-faced lady from Suffolk.

  As quickly as she conjured the image it evaporated like a soap bubble in the sun. Surely Lord Breckonridge had more sense than that. They had only just met. While he looked quite intent, she could not see any great passion smoldering in his eyes. Surely he wanted something else from her. She composed her mouth into a smile.

  “A proposal, my lord? What would that be?”

  He leaned forward. “How would you like children of your own to teach?”

  Sarah blinked. Did he think to offer her a teaching position? Had he a Dame School on one of his estates? But surely he would not bring her to this private place with such a request. She must have mistaken him. “Do you mean children I would bear or children for whom I would be responsible?” she probed.

  “Your own children, to be sure,” he replied. “I’m speaking of your own home as well. A townhouse, or an estate, where you are in charge.”

  That did sound suspiciously like a marriage proposal. But shouldn’t he be down on one knee? The least of Persephone’s suitors would be more impassioned than this, and they had far less experience in public speaking than Malcolm did. He was also an accomplished debater, she reminded herself. He was trying to convince her of something, but what eluded her. Much as she would like the topic to be marriage, she simply could not convince herself of the fact.

  “Sir, do not tease me,” she said. “If you have something to say to me, please do so.”

  He raised an eyebrow and leaned closer. His craggy face dominated her field of vision, and she could not look away from those midnight eyes. “I know you value plain speaking, but I feel I must make sure you understand the benefits of what I am proposing. As I said, I would like to make sure we each get what we want. But I find myself uncertain as to exactly what you might want, Miss Compton.”

  Her gaze settled on his lips. She was sure it did so only to relieve the pressure of his dark gaze, but she found the sight fascinating. They were firm and tinted a soft rose, with the hint of a cleft below the lower one. She could imagine them touching her in the most interesting places. Stunned, she lowered her gaze and took a deep breath to purge these strange thoughts. “I’m afraid what I want, my lord,” she heard herself say, “is not yours to give.”

  “I sincerely hope that is not the case,” he declared. He rose to pace, and Sarah slumped in relief. Widening the distance between them was surely a good thing. Yet, glancing up, she saw with dismay that having a full sight of him only made her stays seem tighter. His long legs were shown to advantage in the tight-fitting gray trousers as he strode about the little room. The dark coat emphasized powerful shoulders. She was reminded of the lion at the Tower Zoo, magnificence caged. She dropped her gaze to her hands once again, interlocking her fingers until she could barely unclench them.

  “I would contend, madam,” he said in what was surely his most persuasive orator’s voice, “that I could offer you your dreams if you would but give me the opportunity.”

  Was he offering her some sort of bribe then? Did he mean to offer her her own establishment if she would plead his case with Persephone? She did not want that to be the case; she could feel the bite of disappointment, strong and sharp. But he had said she would have her own children. What did that have to do with him marrying Persephone? Did he think to provide her with a husband just as Norrie planned to trot out her farmers? The conversation only grew more confused by the second. She kept her eyes on her fingers, afraid of what she would reveal if she raised her head.

  “If this is about Persephone, say no more, my lord,” she told him. “I have heard this speech several times. I cannot pretend to have any influence over my cousin’s choice of husband.”

  She heard him stop and could feel the frown in his response. “What has this to do with your cousin?”

  Involuntarily, her head came it. “You are not speaking about Persephone?”

  “Decidedly not,” he assured her. He returned swiftly to the chair opposite hers and took up her hands in a firm grip. She did not dare look away.

  “I will not deny that your cousin is a lovely young lady,” he said. “But she is absolutely unsuited to my needs. You see, I have a dream as well, a dream for a strong England, as safe and prosperous within as she is protected from without. Some have named governance a noble calling, and I am honored that it is mine. But to live up to that calling, I must have help.”

  Sarah frowned. For a moment she had been sure he meant to propose marriage to her again. Disappointment shot through her, tainted with disgust at her easily duped heart. How could she keep entertaining that notion? She had n
ever been gullible before. “I shall do whatever I can to be of assistance to Parliament, my lord,” she assured him. “Although I fail to see how I might be useful.”

  “You do yourself an injustice, madam,” he assured her. “I have been considering this matter for some time, have looked quite extensively. I can safely say that you alone appear to have the qualifications to undertake this task.”

  Her frown deepened. Was he going to ask her to be a spy of some sort? She could not imagine a worse ingénue. Surely he’d seen how easily her face betrayed her inward thoughts. It must be something else. “Perhaps if you were to give me a few details, my lord,” she ventured.

  He let go of her hands and sat back, once more looking sure of himself. “I would be happy to elaborate. A gentleman in a single state can only progress so far in Parliament before questions are asked. In addition, it is my duty to continue the Breckonridge line. I have considered the matter fully, and believe I need someone who can not only manage a household, but polish my speeches, and assist me in entertaining. In short, Miss Compton, I need a wife.”

  Sarah wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. How ironic, and how like the course of her life, that she had received her first and only proposal in the tone reserved for hiring a servant. She scanned his face again and saw only determination. The fire, the love that poetry, literature, and music celebrated, and she had been taught she had a right to expect with such a declaration, was missing.

  “What you need, my lord,” she corrected him, “is a good steward.”

  He leaned forward again, and she saw he was set on presenting his case. She could feel irritation building. Was she no better than a recalcitrant member of the opposing party? Did he truly think logic was the only thing at play here?

  It appeared so, for he launched into a speech. “I disagree. You see, I need one thing that no steward can provide. I need an heir. That requires a wife.”

  “It generally requires some amount of affection as well,” Sarah felt compelled to tell him.

  “Is it an impassioned plea you want, Miss Compton?” His eyes glittered dangerously. “I had not thought you shared your cousin’s fondness for playing on the gentleman’s desires.”

  “I certainly do not share it,” Sarah replied. “But I’d like to point out, sir, that you apparently have no desires on which to play. Marriage, my lord, is not a business transaction.”

  “Oh, but my dear, it most certainly is.” He rose again, obviously warming to his subject. She could imagine him pacing the floors of Parliament, meeting a gaze there, watching as heads nodded here. “Marriage is more than the union of two individuals. It is the melding of two families, the blending of two estates. It is the commitment of two minds to work as one toward a common goal. It is both our Christian duty and our God-given right.”

  Sarah put her hands together and clapped slowly. “Oh, very pretty, my lord. But you have missed the point entirely. Marriage is about far more than lands and minds merging.”

  He returned to sit beside her. “Do you look for passion as well? I have no fear that we would deal famously.”

  “Are you always this arrogant?” she asked, frowning.

  He grinned. “Nearly always so, particularly when I am attempting to persuade someone to see it my way. And have no doubts that I intend to persuade you, my dear Miss Compton. I have never met a woman more perfect to suit my needs.”

  Sarah shook her head. Why had she ever found this man the least agreeable? “And my needs have nothing to say in the matter?”

  “Certainly,” he agreed magnanimously. “Did we not agree that one of your needs is for a household of your own? I have estates in seven counties, as well as a townhouse here in London. You would have free rein to decorate them and entertain in them as you liked. My income is sufficient that you would never need be concerned about spending money, and I would offer you a considerable dower settlement.”

  “You resort to logic again, my lord,” she replied. “I’m afraid that isn’t going to work.”

  At last he frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  She shook her head. “No, I truly believe you don’t. I’m sure you see this as a great honor. You may even see this as a rescue of sorts, the poor, helpless spinster offered a wondrous new life by the wealthy titled gentleman. It is something out of a fairy tale. But I must refuse, my lord.”

  His frown deepened. “Is it that you fear the intimacy, that I will be as logical in my private life as I am here today?”

  “I would not presume to wonder,” she said, feeling her cheeks reddening.

  His frown evaporated, to be replaced by a lazy smile. He reached out a hand to stroke her cheek. Heat spread from his touch, astonishing her in its intensity. Yet, knowing he was watching her reaction, she forced herself to sit ramrod straight and not lean into the touch as her body demanded. He ran a finger along her lips, and she raised her head, putting them out of reach, even as they tingled with his touch. He shook his head.

  “It isn’t that easy to evade me, Miss Compton,” he murmured. “I believe you know that we would make a marvelous team. Let go of your pride and say you’ll marry me.”

  The desire to agree was as strong as the demand of her body. She clamped her teeth together to keep the words from coming out. Was she such a spineless creature after all to be swayed by a simple touch? The very thought filled her with fury. She rose to her feet, forcing him to do likewise.

  “I must refuse, my lord,” she told him. “I believe it is customary to thank you for your offer. Therefore, I thank you. Now, excuse me. I should see to Persephone.” She attempted to sweep past him, wanting only to escape. Her head was high, her pride higher. She refused to bear another burden of gratitude for something less than love.

  She found his arm blocking her way.

  “You owe me no more explanation than that?” he demanded. “I lay my heart at your feet and you spurn me so easily?”

  She spared him a glance, finding his frown more astonished than angry. She felt a momentary pity for him; it was probably one of the only times anyone had refused him anything.

  He would have to get used to it.

  “You did not lay your heart at my feet,” she replied. The firmness of her statement had some effect, for he withdrew his hand. “You did not even lay your prestige at my feet. What you laid at my feet was the position of a brood mare who will also pull your carriage. I’ve been pulling someone else’s carriage most of my life, my lord. I intend to pull my own carriage in the future. I jolly well don’t need to do it for a near stranger, no matter how rich or powerful or handsome or arrogant. The answer to your question is no, my lord. No, no, and again no. I do not need to marry for wealth or work. Most likely, I will never marry. But if I do, it will have to be like something out of a fairy story. The gentleman will need to be so madly in love with me that he can see no other course of action. And I assure you, I will feel the same way about him. Now, this interview is at an end. Goodbye, Lord Breckonridge.”

  Chapter Nine

  As Malcolm stormed into Lady Prestwick’s sitting room that afternoon, she deigned to look up. She was her usual composed self, perched on her camel-backed sofa with a partially finished piece of embroidery in her lap, needle poised in mid-air. She didn’t even blink as he stalked up to her.

  “She turned me down,” he declared without roundaboutation.

  She simply eyed him. “Miss Compton? Why would she do that?”

  “Why indeed?” Malcolm snarled. He wanted nothing so much as to rail at the injustice, but he spotted Rames, the Prestwick butler, hovering in the background, jowls quivering. Prestwick had mentioned the fellow was a gossip. Malcolm affixed him with a black glare. “I won’t eat your mistress, man. Give us a moment in private.”

  The butler swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, and turned his gaze to his mistress. “My lady?”

  “It’s quite all right, Rames,” Anne told him. “If Lord Prestwick gets home while Lord Breckonridge is here, please show hi
m in. Otherwise, you may leave me with his lordship safely.”

  It was a statement of the irregularities the fellow had no doubt seen when he had worked for the bachelor Prestwick that Rames did not so much as blink as he bowed and exited, shutting the double doors behind him.

  Anne neatly took a stitch in her fabric. “So, Miss Compton did not wish to be your wife. That seems a bit odd.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” he spat, still too angry to sit. He paced the room instead, although even the long strides the green-hung room allowed did not diminish the emotions surging through him. “I obviously chose the wrong woman.”

  She raised an eyebrow and took another stitch. “Do you truly think so? She seemed perfect for you.”

  “Obviously, we were both duped,” he told her firmly.

  “I see,” she replied. “A shame. Let me see, didn’t you say you needed someone who is a good household manager? Is her townhouse ill-run then?”

  “It is spotless,” he admitted. “The servants are efficient, and the decorations are tasteful.”

  “Then I take it she overspends her budget.”

  “Not that I can tell,” Malcolm replied, slowing his steps in thought. “Her wardrobe is behind the times; she does not appear to put a great deal of blunt into her looks.”

  “Is that not good? I believe you told Chas you didn’t want someone who was fussy in fashion.”

  He thought of the way her simple gowns flowed down her well curved frame. “She is not the least bit fussy, I assure you.”

  “Then she is not intelligent. She would not be able to find flaws in your logic.”

  Prestwick had obviously shared their entire conversation with his wife. Malcolm paused to regard her bowed head, looking for some sign of superiority, but she continued to stitch as if it were the most important thing she could do.

  “I cannot say she is not intelligent,” he replied. “In fact, she thinks she found a decided flaw in my logic.”

  “Oh?” The question was bland as if she were doing no more than asking his opinion on the weather. Malcolm shook his head.