All You Could Ask For

by Angeline Fortin

  Despite the sins of her mother, her stepfather had showered his love upon Piper. Called her the daughter of his heart.

  He deserved better than this.

  Better than a wife who took joy in becoming a widow.

  Piper hadn’t even been allowed to attend the funeral. Though it was true that few young ladies did so in this day and age, the service had been a private one. A solemn and all-too-brief prayer over a stark coffin before it had been set into the cold earth of the Sedmouth family plot. Yet she hadn’t been permitted to attend.

  To mourn.

  She hadn’t been allowed to do much of that at all. If her older brother were present, perhaps things might be different. She might have had arms to comfort her. A shoulder to cry upon.

  Instead, before a single shovelful of dirt had been cast into Sedmouth’s grave, Celeste commenced preparations to leave the viscount’s country estate in Basingstoke behind in favor of London society.

  And plot her next move.

  More than likely, the object of her mother’s latest ambitions was below right now. Piper could discern a reverberating baritone rumble between breaks in Celeste’s bright tittering. No doubt he was imbibing copious amounts of champagne when he should be wary of the viper’s nest he’d entered.

  A light tap sounded at her bedchamber door before it opened a crack. Through the gap a pale, solemn face caught the glow of the gas sconce on the wall. “M’lady?”

  “Yes, Edith?”

  The maid swallowed hard, pity clouding her wide eyes. “Your mother would like you to attend her in the gold drawing room.”

  Piper closed her eyes, praying for strength and patience. “You may tell my mother that I’m in mourning for my stepfather even if she is not.”

  Edith nodded. “I understand, m’lady. In that case, I’m instructed to inform you that a pair of footmen will be sent to carry you down if you don’t come of your own accord.”

  A part of her liked to believe her mother wouldn’t dare go to such measures. Unfortunately, that part of her was the portion that dwelled in hope and delusion.

  Glancing down at the letter she’d composed, Piper wondered if the plea she’d written there, too, was nothing more than fancy and fantasy.

  ‘Harry, please! Where are you? Haven’t you heard the news? Oh, dearest brother, you promised you’d take me away from here. Why haven’t you come?’

  Piper set her pen aside and capped her ink bottle. “Tell my mother I will be down shortly.”

  The maid sighed with visible relief. “Yes, m’lady.”

  * * *

  “There she is!” The unspoken finally was evident in the tight undertone of Celeste’s voice.

  There’d be reprisal for dawdling, though Piper had managed no more than a quarter hour before another, more insistent knock had sounded at her door. No doubt there’d be a few harsh words as well for her appearance, as she’d sacrificed none of those fifteen minutes to pretty herself for the sake of company.

  In a drab black gown with her equally black hair bound by a haphazardly tied ribbon, her eyes red and swollen from crying and her nose bright as a cherry, her presentation reflected her unsettled emotions perfectly. And she was glad of it. Her mother’s indecorous breach of proper mourning etiquette deserved no better.

  Now more than ever. Her somber garb stood in stark contrast to Celeste’s burgundy velvet—a tactless splash of color amid the golden brocades of the drapery, wallpaper, and furniture—and her mother’s hair. Moreover, it had been bad enough to think of Celeste receiving a group of people when by rights the house should be closed in mourning. Even worse to realize her mother entertained only a single gentleman.

  She had no shame, though Piper bore enough in that moment for them both.

  Celeste’s guest stood near the fireplace, his elbow propped nonchalantly on the mantel, a glass of champagne dangling from his hand. Though he appeared to be at least two score years or more, his golden blond hair, chiseled visage, and crystal blue eyes bespoke ageless, angelic masculinity.

  “Your Grace, may I present my daughter, Lady Phillipa Brudenall.” The moniker broke through the bedazzled haze most any handsome man could cast over a young lady of seventeen years, and Piper winced. The proper name it might be, however, she far preferred the nickname her brother had blessed her with years ago.

  The manner in which her mother addressed her guest also sunk in to give her pause.

  A duke.

  True, Celeste cared for rank and wealth above all else. She’d possessed both when she’d wed Piper’s father, Robert Brudenall, after his beloved first wife passed away. Playing on his wife’s dying wish that he provide a mother for their son, she’d finagled her way into his life, his bed, and matrimony. In that order, if the whispers Piper had heard over the years were true.

  Her subsequent marriage to Sedmouth had been a step down despite his fortune, and Celeste had never let him forget it. Since his unexpected death five days ago, Celeste had shed the title of viscountess, which she considered low and therefore distasteful, in favor of her former and far loftier one, Marchioness of Aylesbury—the title she preferred far above any other she’d obtained thus far in life.

  Including that of mother.

  Or rather, mother of a mere daughter.

  Condemnation of Piper’s egregious choice to be born female rather than male had rung like a monotonous chorus in her ears for the bulk of her life. It had been the sole purpose of her existence, after all, and put quite the damper on Celeste’s plans to set her offspring ahead of Piper’s half-brother Harry, laws of primogeniture be damned.

  Her grandiose ambitions knew no bounds. In all likelihood, the duke before her would soon sacrifice his stately title to Celeste’s schemes.

  His grace offered a lazy smile, as oblivious as a lamb out to slaughter. The poor wretch had no idea what he was getting himself into by keeping Celeste’s company.

  “Phillipa,” her mother continued, “this is Ambrose Waldegrave, Duke of Rutledge.”

  Not just any duke. An edgy chill summoned by the Rutledge name dashed away whatever admiration for his fine good looks might have lingered. Even at the finishing school she’d attended until the previous year, she’d heard rumors of the scurrilous Duke of Rutledge.

  Casting her eyes downward, she studied the intricate pattern inlaid into the wood floors. The Greek key design in light and dark tones began just beyond her toe. Inside that border, interwoven golden circles and rosy cherry squares spread like a carpet. Or as she’d often fancied, stepping stones across a bubbling creek. Now, they were planks traversing the hell fires below…with the devil on the other side.

  Rutledge pushed away from the fireplace and strolled toward her. His assessing stare raked her from head to toe and the urge to flee besieged Piper.

  Who was the innocent lamb in the room now?

  He took her limp, icy hand and bowed over it. “My lady. A pleasure.”

  Piper said nothing. Her mother might be able to force her presence but she couldn’t compel conversation. A far better excuse than admitting she feared no sound would emerge from her suddenly parched throat.

  Nothing of the wolf Piper had heard him to be reflected in Rutledge’s beatific smile as he studied her. She might have been inclined to dismiss the rumors of his unscrupulous nature if his direct scrutiny hadn’t made her flesh crawl. Dead fish bore more emotion than he.

  This man was no pawn. His ruthlessness was legendary. As conniving as Celeste was, she couldn’t hold a candle to Rutledge’s reputation.

  “Rarely have I found rumors to bear any truth,” he said so abruptly, Piper feared he’d read her mind. “What a pleasure to confirm those regarding your beauty weren’t exaggerated. You’ve the most vibrant eyes, my dear girl. Like the skies of heaven.”

  A nauseating quiver slithered through her as he clasped her hand between his, his thumb caressing her palm. He might resemble an angel, though by all accounts, he’d never get a glimpse past the pearly gates. Piper tugge
d; he didn’t release her.

  “Duke?” Celeste’s tone hardened. “You’ve seen her and I can readily see you approve. Have we a bargain, then?”

  Rutledge cocked his head, his pale gaze never leaving Piper. “We do.”

  A rustling of papers drew Piper’s attention, even if it didn’t sway his, and she turned to see her mother fanning a sheaf of parchment atop a nearby table. A pen and ink stood at the ready. The reality of what transpired under her nose seized Piper with all the rage that had assailed her for days.

  She knew that her mother had pinned high hopes on her marriageability. Not that she differed from any other society matron of the ton with an eligible daughter to marry off. Many, including her dearest friend Jane’s mother, aspired to a great match. Winning her daughter a duchess’s tiara would be a social coup for Celeste. Admittedly, somewhere in her childish fantasies, Piper had dreamed of the same.

  But not yet. Not now.

  Over the past year, she’d often overheard her mother badger Sedmouth to arrange an advantageous marriage for her daughter. He always refused to hear of it, saying Piper was deserving of a Season or two before such serious matters were considered. To have her mother coordinate this, days after his death when she’d already thrown propriety to the wind, was too much. Piper wouldn’t have it.

  Most definitely not with him.

  “You think to marry me off to this…this…old man?” Piper managed to temper the far worse epitaph on her tongue, though she couldn’t resist freeing her hand from the duke’s grip.

  Celeste’s smooth, ivory complexion grew mottled with blotches of unflattering crimson. The duke, on the other hand, stilled like a pale marble statue but for the tiniest boost of one brow.

  Piper bit her lip to stifle a yelp as her mother pinched the tender flesh at the back of her arm. A favorite punishment of hers, painful yet rarely leaving a visible mark. Piper should have known better than to stay close at hand. “My apologies, your grace. My daughter is out of sorts.”

  “Your daughter is in mourning for Sedmouth,” Piper retorted. “As this entire house should be.”

  “You will hold your tongue, you wretched fool,” Celeste hissed under her breath and pinched harder. The duke’s brow notched up further, though he offered not a word. “I would expect you to be suitably honored if the duke were inclined to propose such a union. However, he has not.”

  “He hasn’t?” A flush of shame warmed her cheeks. Her rudeness knew no bounds. She shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. In her defense, having been summoned and paraded before the duke, Piper considered her assumption a logical one.

  “His grace has requested my hand in marriage.”

  The news dumbfounded Piper even more. It took a moment to blink away her incredulity. For years, speculation of Celeste’s calculated coercion of first Aylesbury and then Sedmouth had spread as thick as jam on a fresh scone. That a man of the duke’s repute could be gulled into voluntarily falling into her well-known mechanizations for greater title and wealth was astonishing.

  She glanced at Rutledge, biting back the urge to ask what possessed him. “You have?”

  “Indeed, I have,” the duke drawled, then offered the reason himself. “On the condition…”

  “We are both to have a title in the bargain, darling.” Celeste fluttered her lashes at Rutledge with false lightheartedness. “Isn’t that wonderful? For us both? I will be the duchess for now and then someday, you will inherit the same title. It is an incredible oppor—” She shot a glance at the duke. “Rather, an incredible honor his grace does us both.”

  Of course. Piper nearly laughed at the admission. Celeste did nothing that she didn’t benefit from herself. She’d have herself a handsome, if heartless, duke and the title to go with it while leaving her daughter to…

  The reality of the deal at hand struck her then. To gain the title of Duchess of Rutledge one day, she’d have to be the wife of the duke’s son. And as far as she knew, he had exactly one.

  If the thought of wedding the duke had her in shudders, contemplating the alternative nearly sent her into a swoon. If Rutledge were the king of debauchery, his son Milford Waldegrave, Viscount Dormer, was the crown prince. Tales of his moral depravity bordered on the criminal, and there was talk that disease stemming from his exploits had rendered him half-mad. She’d heard that he’d brutalized and ruined a highborn young lady, first denying it then later boasting of his evil deed.

  Piper did not know what brutalized entailed, nor did she care to. All she knew was that Rutledge had consigned his son to his country estate under guard after the scandal had broken.

  No decent mother would allow her daughter within a mile of him.

  Her mother wanted her only daughter to marry him.

  “I will not.” Her vehement rejection surprised them all. Herself included. Once vocalized, Piper had no intention of recanting her refutation. Without maternal protection on her side, she had to speak out.

  The duke’s brow, already elevated, rose to greater heights. Celeste’s reaction was not as composed. Her forehead and mouth creased into deep, unattractive grooves that her mother would have been horrified by. Jaw clenched, she managed a stilted, “Duke, would you allow me a moment alone with my daughter?”

  “I think not, my lady,” the duke answered contrarily, crossing his arms over his chest. “I find myself intrigued to hear your daughter’s rationale on the matter.”

  Agape, with no idea how to rebuke such an open denial to what had obviously been a rhetorical request, her mother vacillated between continuing on and an utter stupefaction that would have provided Piper a fair amount of merriment at any other time. She did enjoy seeing her mother silenced for any reason and took the opportunity to step out of reach of her mother’s pinching fingers.

  “You were saying?” he prompted.

  Piper’s moment of triumph slipped away at the emotional void in his eyes. She swallowed the lump growing at the back of her throat. “I have no wish to wed at this time, your grace.” Especially not to someone like the viscount, she refrained from adding aloud. She did, however, feel compelled to inform him, “Nor does my mother have the right to contract a union on my behalf.”

  “I have every right.” Celeste cast an anxious glance and gaunt smile at Rutledge. “I am your mother.”

  Adamant, Piper shook her head. “But not my guardian. Even Sedmouth could not have arranged a marriage for me, your grace, nor could I accept any offers,” she assured him. “Not without the permission of the Marquis of Aylesbury.”

  “What makes you think your brother hasn’t given it?” her mother bit out, before forcing another smile for the duke’s sake.

  “He wouldn’t.” Piper clasped the conviction close to her heart. Her dear brother would never be so cruel. Couldn’t be.

  Yet, Harry wasn’t here as he’d promised to be. He hadn’t come to whisk her away from the nightmare of life with Celeste, again, as he’d promised. He’d done none of the things he’d sworn to do.

  Her mother picked at the fraying threads of her faith. “He did. Wholeheartedly. He came and left from Sedmouth’s funeral without asking once to see you and offered his approval for the match. He wants nothing more to do with you than I.”

  “You’re lying,” Piper managed, although her conviction wavered. Harry had been there? Why hadn’t he spoken to her? Written? It had been weeks since she’d heard from him.

  She glanced at the contracts spread on the table and the seal of the marquisate stamped at the bottom. Her heart sank. She refused to believe her ever-loving and affectionate brother would abandon her to a marriage to the most disgraceful heir in the land.

  He wouldn’t.

  A shaft of sunlight made its way through a gap in the curtains to illuminate the blank lines next to the seal. Her unbreakable confidence in her brother’s devotion revitalized. “His signature is not on those agreements.”

  “A technicality,” Celeste insisted, glaring at her.

  “A necessity,
” she countered, optimism renewed. “Until I see it there or hear it from my brother’s own lips, his grace can take his offer and shove it up his blistering ar—ouch!”

  Piper glowered at her mother and for the briefest moment, something vulnerable showed through Celeste’s shrewd gaze.

  “Darling, I’ve never wanted you to experience a moment of life’s uncertainties. Not as I have. Think about the benefits that will be yours. Not only a title and wealth, but security. The settlements and jointure Rutledge offers are beyond generous. You will never want for anything in life. What more could I ask for than to know my child is settled in the best possible situation?”

  The words rang with a truth Piper didn’t often hear from her mother. A smidge of sympathy crept into her steadfast resolve. Contracting an advantageous marriage for their daughters was the cornerstone of a mother’s ambition and hallmark of their success. All the girls at her boarding school had mothers who said that very thing. Many who’d accomplished it.

  Perhaps Celeste was no different from them, after all.

  “I want nothing more than to see you safe and sound,” her mother added. “Well taken care of.”

  Piper’s defenses rose once more at that addendum. Her mother might be like all the rest in wanting the best for her child. Contrary to the notion, the last thing Piper would be as Viscountess Dormer was safe or well taken care of. Not in his hands if there were the tiniest grain of truth to the rumors.

  She wasn’t willing to take that chance. “I will not do it, and Harry would never insist. Of that, I am confident.”

  “Lady Sedmouth.” Rutledge smoothly employed the lesser title Celeste abhorred so much. Piper might have admired his maneuvering against her mother if she weren’t furious with them both. “Perhaps you might allow me a word alone with your daughter?”