“You mentioned three objectives.”
“Ah.” He waggled his brows.
Charley pinched back another smile.
“And?”
“It will move our courtship forward.”
“You certainly are persistent.” Which was precisely why his idea was not a good one, and yet… she couldn’t completely resist his suggestion. “I will think about it.”
Lord Westerley escorted her back to the drawing room, where she immediately excused herself. His company was… potent and she had already spent more time than she ought with him. Even so, as the afternoon turned to evening, she found herself unable to focus on anything else—until, that was, the performance began.
Sitting between Tabetha and Felicity on polished chairs that had been set out in lines, Charley peered up at the chandeliers that glowed above and allowed the notes to wash over her. A quartet of stringed instruments seemed to dance around the room, literally bringing it to life.
These musicians were nothing like the country learned fiddlers she’d listened to while growing up. Dressed to the nines, the four gentlemen didn’t miss a note. In fact, they played their instruments in much the manner as most people drew breath.
Smooth when it should be smooth, soft and then loud and all in perfect synchronicity. She even closed her eyes and became so transfixed by the music that she was jolted back to her surroundings when the guests around her broke into a round of applause.
A hand tapped her shoulder. “May I procure a drink for you, Miss Jackson?” Baron Chaswick’s pale blue gaze took her somewhat off guard. She’d heard the other gentlemen address him by the unusual name of Chase.
She hadn’t even realized that these particular gentlemen had taken their seats behind her. Lord Westerley on one side, watching her with not quite a half smile and another, the man with the facial scar who reminded her of a sort of gentle giant, next to him—the viscount.
But for Lord Westerley, she had difficulty keeping them straight. Although, their numbers had decreased, she noticed, the duke fellow being notably absent.
“That would be lovely, Lord Chaswick,” Tabetha answered for her. “And Westerley, I believe Lady Felicity would appreciate a refreshment as well.”
Charley watched as Lord Westerley turned a kind disposition toward the lovely blonde lady seated on Charley’s opposite side. “Your wishes are our commands. You too, Beth?” He raised his brows in Bethany’s direction as both he and Lord Chaswick rose and edged their way out from between the chairs.
The trouble with someone like Lord Westerley was that he was so good at being kind and charming that a lady could quite easily believe he was flirting with her.
“Every time I listen to your brother, I am more impressed with his playing,” Bethany addressed Mr. Spencer.
“Your brother is one of the musicians?” Ah yes, the second Mr. Spencer was the other missing gentleman. Charley glanced over at the dais. She had been so delighted by their playing that she hadn’t recognized the actual players. In as much as she’d expected to find fault with most of what she experienced in this country, certain aspects of it were making it rather difficult.
Almost impossible.
“Peter plays the cello,” Mr. Spencer answered proudly.
Charley glanced back toward the stage. “I should have recognized him before,” she admitted ruefully.
“There are four Spencer sons in all.” Tabetha grinned. “But the heir is married.”
“As is my youngest brother Joseph, and my sister.”
Charley wondered what it would be like to belong to such a large family. “Your brother is amazing. I’ve never heard anything as beautiful.”
“He refused to play in public for a very long time. It was our sister-in-law who convinced him.”
“Lady Darlington,” Tabetha supplied and then lowered her voice. “She was once a maid!”
Bethany glared at Tabetha and Felicity changed the subject diplomatically. “We are lucky to be the beneficiaries of Lady Darlington’s persuasive abilities.” It was obvious why Lord Westerley’s family would want him to marry her. Likely, she’d make for an excellent countess.
“Did you ladies miss me?” Chaswick asked as he stepped sideways, returning to lower himself into the chair Lord Westerley had vacated. As Westerley held out a glass of lemonade toward Charley and Tabetha, the charming baron placed the drinks he carried into Bethany and Felicity’s hands.
“Such a shame a family can’t have more than one heir.” Tabetha giggled into her drink, earning a scowl from her brother.
“Thank you.” Charley accepted the glass and raised it to her lips.
“I cannot help thinking these beverages would be greatly improved upon if only Miss Jackson was willing to supply us with some of her father’s whiskey,” Mr. Spencer commented with a wink. “As it is, we’ll have to settle for the Scottish version.” He removed a flask from inside his coat and toasted it in her direction.
“Miss Jackson’s version is sweeter.” Westerley sent her a wink as he stepped sideways into the row of chairs.
“It is just something I’m trying.” Charley clarified. “Our primary product is dry.”
“Surely you don’t drink the whiskey yourself?” Felicity asked.
“But she would have to,” Bethany explained. “She assists in making it.”
And in that moment, Charley felt everyone’s gaze on her. She sipped some lemonade and hoped it would cool the flush creeping into her cheeks. Being the center of attention was not a circumstance she ever aspired to or even partly enjoyed.
The leader of the quartet chose that moment to instruct the players to lift their bows to their strings, and Charley could hardly have felt more grateful. Just as she turned around to watch the musicians once again, a warm hand landed on her shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. She didn’t have to look back to know who it was.
Lord Westerley.
Her heart slowed, and she was able to enjoy the music once again. Only this time, she didn’t lose herself so completely.
Knowing Lord Westerley was seated behind her was more of a distraction than she’d like to admit. She couldn’t help but compare the sensation to how she’d felt around Nash.
Nash had left her feeling unsettled as well. She’d known she wasn’t as pretty as the other ladies in their circles back home and had often felt uncertain and on edge.
Lord Westerley sent unsettling feelings through her but of an entirely different nature. Did this mean that she was safe from him? He was a flirt of the worst kind but seemingly with the kindest of intentions.
Was it possible that she could agree to his suggestion with the understanding that she could only ever be his friend? Because despite the wager he’d made with her father, she could not marry him. They lived, quite literally, in different worlds.
Chapter 8
SPEAKING OF BAD LUCK
“You’ll never make it.” Chase folded his arms across his chest as Jules bent over the billiards table. “It’s an impossible shot.”
“Ten pounds says I will.” Jules held his body relaxed and steady.
“Very well.”
All Jules had to do was bank the ball just so… He slid the cue forward with a jerk and straightened to watch in satisfaction as the white ball hit the red, which hit his ball, which rolled perfectly into the corner pocket.
“Damn.” Mantis reached into his pocket to note the result. “Perhaps your run of bad luck has come to an end.”
All of Jules’ intimates knew of his situation with Mr. Jackson. They were also aware of the details and circumstances surrounding the unspoken agreement that had existed with Lady Felicity’s father. None of them questioned that Jules must honor the bet with the Whiskey King.
He ambled around the table, bent over, and with a short stroke, sent another ball rolling smoothly into a side pocket.
Had it been a run of bad luck? He supposed Lord Brightley would see it that way. Would Felicity be disappointed? His sisters
would be. And his mother, of course. But there hadn’t been a contract. Extricating himself from their expectations oughtn’t prove to be all that complicated.
Jules ran the table and then stepped back while Viscount Mantis reset it.
“Speaking of bad luck, how are matters progressing with Miss Jackson?” Mantis gestured to Chase to take the first shot.
An inkling of irritation stirred Jules and he scowled across the table and up at the good side of the viscount’s face. “I cannot have my future wife referred to as bad luck and would appreciate you refraining from doing so in the future.” Jules had held the losing hand that night, but there’d be no further mention of it. It wasn’t proper to allow such disrespect.
Jules had found himself watching her closely throughout much of the performance the night before. Not only out of curiosity, but because he… enjoyed looking at her.
Chase grunted but Mantis nodded.
Greys met Jules’ stare from where he sat in the corner and lifted one haughty brow.
“Speaking of bad luck, what happened between you and Blackheart?” Jules changed the subject, directing the question to the least talkative amongst them.
“He made the epic mistake of agreeing to a wager with Greys, that’s what,” Chase said. “He ought to have known better.”
“He bet that you’d announce your betrothal to Miss Jackson by noon yesterday,” Mantis supplied.
“It seems Blackheart was overconfident in the great Westerley charm,” Greys finally spoke up, “as we’ve heard of no such thing. You did ask her, no doubt.”
Jules turned his gaze on each of his friends. “Was Blackheart the only one with faith in me?”
“It wasn’t that I couldn’t put my faith in you, Jules old man. Miss Jackson, however, has quite a spirited look in those emerald eyes of hers.”
What the devil was Greys doing noticing her eyes? Was it possible he wanted her for himself? Jules met the marquess’s matter-of-fact expression with a half-smile of his own.
Of course not. Greys was the most fastidious of them all as far as appearances. When he married, the chit would be a perfect English Rose from an old and lofty family.
“But that’s not the beauty of it,” Mantis inserted. “It was an idiotic wager for Blackheart to take.”
Jules lifted a brow in question. “He mentioned putting his affairs in order.”
Chase slapped his thigh and even Greys cracked a smile. Even Peter Spencer, who sat in the corner, randomly plucking the strings of his cello, was grinning.
“To make good on the bet,” Chase said when he could bring himself to sit up again. “Simon Benjamin Alexander Harold Cockfield, the seventh duke of Blackheart,” Chase shook his head until he gained control of his mirth, “must act as Greystone’s butler.”
“Surely not!” No wonder Blackheart had seemed stunned. “For how long? A week? A fortnight?”
“In town. Throughout the entire Season.”
Jules didn’t know how to respond to such an unexpected announcement. How was it even going to be possible? The man was a bloody duke, for god’s sake!
“And he mustn’t break character. If he does, then he’ll be required to allow Greys to choose the future Duchess of Blackheart.”
“He’ll never be able to do it.” Good Lord, and all because he’d put his faith in Jules’ ability to convince Miss Jackson to wed him within twelve hours of making her acquaintance. Jules rarely bet against Greys. Blackheart ought to have known better.
“Care to wager on that?” Mantis turned to challenge Jules, appearing rather beastly, considering the way the evening sunlight slanted across his scar.
Jules weighed the duke’s ability and character against the difficulty of the task Blackheart had ahead of him. Hell and damnation, if anyone could do it, Black could.
And yet Jules really did hate to walk away from such an excellent contest. “The duration is too long. Even Blackheart won’t be able to keep from slipping into his ducal self over the course of two and a half months.” Although it didn’t seem quite fair that Jules would go against his old friend when Black had voted on Jules’ success.
“He’ll do it. I’ve yet to witness Blackheart fail at anything. Consider me in,” Spencer spoke up from where he’d appeared to be napping on the settee. “The losers of this wager must make a mad dash through Hyde Park the morning after the last ball of the Season wearing ladies’ evening gowns.”
“Pishaw.” Chase waved a hand. “Far too easy. They must be naked. But for a masque.”
“He’ll succeed.” This from Chase. “And I’d far prefer to wear a lady’s gown.”
“Same,” Mantis agreed. “Jules?”
“He can’t do it. He’s a blasted duke, for Christ sake. What will it be, a gown or nude?”
“Nude,” Greys said. “And I’m inclined to agree.”
“Count me out of this one.” Peter slid one finger down one string on his instrument, punctuating his decision with an ominous sound.
Mantis wrote the details in his little book and Jules chuckled. He did feel slightly more confident knowing he was on the same side of this one as Greys. Running through the park in nothing but what God gave him held little appeal.
“And on that note, I’ve duties I must attend to,” Jules said. “If you’ll be so kind as to excuse me.” He returned his cue to the rack on the wall before making a quick bow and heading toward the exit.
“One hundred pounds says Westerley is betrothed to the chit by sunup tomorrow.” Stone Spencer’s voice barely floated out the door as Jules closed it behind him.
Stone’s pockets, he feared, would be one hundred pounds lighter come morning. In order to uphold his promise to Mr. Daniel Jackson, Jules feared he’d have to play his long game. Honor was concerned, making success the only acceptable outcome.
The last time Jules had failed to uphold his gentleman’s code, the result had been tragic. He could never sacrifice his honor again.
“There you are, darling. Are you enjoying the party so far?” Jules pivoted just as his mother approached from the opposite end of the foyer and took hold of his arm.
If Bethany and Jules both took after their father in appearance, Tabetha most definitively carried on their mother’s blonde beauty. And despite the fact that she was nearing the half-century mark, their mother remained a handsome woman.
“How could I not when you’ve done all the planning?” Jules covered his mother’s jeweled hands and proceeded to stroll alongside her to whatever destination she had in mind.
“I do try to be original,” his mother said with little modesty. “So many house parties consist of the same activities over and over again. It’s especially difficult this time of year, when we cannot count on the weather to cooperate.”
“I hear that yesterday’s activities provided the utmost of enjoyment.”
“Did Lady Felicity tell you that? She is looking prettier than ever, if I say so myself.”
Jules tilted his head, making a cracking sound before he could stop himself.
His mother cringed. “I do wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“I’m sorry.” But she’d forget the cracking as soon as she discovered that her future daughter-in-law would not be the daughter of one of her dearest friends but of a man who made American whiskey for a living.
“Have you spoken to her privately?”
His mother’s question drew his attention back to her. “Who?”
“Why, Lady Felicity, of course. Can I be so optimistic as to hope for an announcement on the night of the ball? It would make for an excellent end to the party.”
Luckily, they’d arrived at the entrance to the dining room, where he suspected his mother would wish to inspect the seating arrangements and décor.
“I hate to disappoint you, Mother—”
“So you must intend to surprise me. Have I ruined your surprise, darling?”
Jules ran a hand through his hair without answering.
“It’s just that s
he’s waited such a long time. And you, Julian Elias Fitzwilliam, have achieved your thirtieth year. It’s high time you do more than simply contemplate setting up your nursery if you’re ever to beget an heir.”
“I see your point, Mother.” Jules winced. “But what if—”
“Oh, no! Smythe, you cannot seat Lady Turlington beside Mrs. Reddington! Do you want an outright war to break out at my dinner table?” His mother fluttered around the table with several harried-looking maids in her wake. She glanced over her shoulder. “We can discuss this later, Jules, darling. And if you could, please, be a dear and arrive in the drawing room early this evening. I’ve a thousand things to do and only a few hours to do them. It doesn’t show well when the host is missing.”
Jules exhaled but nodded. He hated to disappoint her. Perhaps it would be best if she came to know Miss Jackson a little better first.
He waited outside the dining room doors and after the room became silent, he slipped back inside to make a few corrections to the seating arrangement himself. Because, after all, how could his mother come to appreciate her future daughter-in-law if she didn’t really know her?
He made a few other switches as well, placing Lady Masters between Greys and Spencer. Chuckling to himself, he silently closed the door behind him.
He had at least three hours of correspondence to address before dinner was served. How in God’s name would Blackheart manage his ducal responsibilities while also acting as a butler? As a major in the army, Blackheart’s brother, Lord Lucas, certainly couldn’t take over.
It was possible Blackheart would surrender before the charade even began. The thought added a skip to Jules’ step as he sauntered to his study. It would be rather entertaining to see how the lords and ladies responded to the sight of three gentlemen making a mad dash through the park wearing nothing but regret.
Entertaining, indeed.
Chapter 9
DIFFERENT IDEAS
“Hold onto the post while I tighten this.” Charley inhaled and then gasped when Daisy cinched the laces of her stays.
Cocky Earl: A Regency Cocky Gents Novel Page 8