by Reid, Stacy
His family was intolerably unforgiving of anyone who did not fit their idea of proper behavior. It was uncouth and vulgar not to be able to manage one’s emotions and passions that could lead to scandal. The men in his family did not indulge in excessive drinking, carriage racing, gambling, public brawls, or private ones for that matter. A willful, hedonistic lifestyle indicated a weakness of character that was abhorrent to his straight-laced family. Weak blooded fools his grandmother, who was Catholic but kept to the Church of England’s rules, had always said scathingly.
And he did see the honor of not being controlled by vices, but he did not believe in abstinence from pleasure. Nor did he allow society and his family to dictate those he should trust and befriend.
And this slip of a girl…no, a woman, with all her bountiful curves and beautiful eyes had tempted him with curse words, a very splotchy skin, and eyes swollen from tears. She was truly an ugly crier. Christopher chuckled. He had lost his damn senses. Emptying the last of the drink, he made his way from the library, down the elegantly appointed hallway before coming upon a wide-open door leading to a large ballroom.
Every single woman in the room had become aware of him the moment he arrived. And while other gentlemen would preen at the attention, their unabashed admiration irritated Christopher. It wasn’t his character that turned their heads or made the ladies eager for his company. Only his title and income seemed to be of concern.
The noise and the different scents crashed against his senses. Ladies and gentlemen twirled across the ballroom, glittering in their fineries, many stood on the sidelines laughing and chatting behind their fans. Footmen slipped with impressive dexterity through the crush, serving glasses of champagne. A few young debutantes sent him coy, flirtatious glances, and the older girls and ladies were quite bolder in their regard and expectations. It irritated him that not one of them gave a donkey’s ass about what he liked or wanted from life. They mere saw the blasted title and his worth. In truth, the lady in the library just now had been the first in years to stare at him without avarice or manipulation.
His older sister by a year, the charming Selina, Lady Andrews, a marchioness in her own right, a fashion icon for young ladies of the ton, hurried over to him and looped her hands within his. Clad in a layered golden gown which clung to her slender frame, her black hair caught in a high pile atop her head styled and treaded with pearls, she appeared quite beautiful and radiant. Though he suspected her glow of happiness should be credited to her recent announcement, for she and her marquis expected their first child seven months from now.
“Christopher darling, you had promised to dance with Miss Charlotte Hufford. She is perfect for you,” Selina gushed, silver-gray eyes very much like his twinkling merrily. “At least two of the set of waltzes for tonight have already gone. Charlotte was so crushed not to have stood up with you."
“I’m sure she’ll recover,” he said dryly. If he recalled correctly, Miss Hufford had been the lady to drop her lace handkerchief at his feet earlier in the receiving line. He’d obliged, to her delight, and had then been introduced.
Somehow his family thought Miss Hufford was the ideal woman to be his duchess. How they could fathom he would wish to marry an eighteen-year-old girl in her first season was beyond him. And they would not be deterred in their thoughts or ambitions for him. His two sisters—Amelia and Selina—were happily married to men of rank and fortune, and they would not be content until he was similarly situated it seems. It was perhaps time to stop being indulgent of their matchmaking theatrics. It was becoming tedious as his marriage appeared to be the only topic of exciting conversation whenever they met.
“I’m not interested in dancing with Miss Hufford.”
His sister shot him a surprised glance. "At least it sounds like you might be interested in dancing. You haven’t stood up with anyone I’ve urged you to for the last three balls! Is there someone you are interested in and not saying to Amelia or me?” she asked archly, following his gaze, though discreetly done, to the lady in blue.
His sister's arm dug into his, and she audibly gasped. "That is Miss Pippa Cavanaugh. How did she secure an invitation I wonder? Her father is Baron Cavanaugh,” she whispered, quite aghast. “Surely you recall the disaster?”
In other words, Miss Pippa Cavanaugh was a scandal and disgrace, the opposite to everything his family stood for. Christopher still remembered the scandal which had exploded around the Cavanaughs some five or six years ago. Society had been ruthless and happy in pronouncing judgment.
“How do you know her?” his sister asked, her dulcet tone rich with disapproval.
“I do not,” he said blandly. Was this why she had sounded so devastated when that bounder had revealed himself to be a cad? Had she rested her hopes on marrying him?
He tried to wrest his gaze away and could not. The icy blue short-sleeved gown was worn low on her shoulders, the narrow skirt hugging her curvaceous frame to its best advantage. Her raven black hair was styled in a simple chignon with a few artful curls kissing her rosy cheeks, and unlike the other ladies, she was without diamonds, pearls, and rubies. Miss Cavanaugh might not be dressed in the first stare of fashion as all the other ingénue present, but she was charming in her appearance, and to his mind quite lovely.
“Christopher you are staring,” Selina gasped, squeezing his arm. “Good gracious! Do you like her?”
Her tone implied it would be better to say he wished to kiss a two-headed snake. He’d always been frank with his sisters, but now he felt oddly protective of Miss Cavanaugh’s reputation. The image of her injured eyes created an ache in the proximity of his heart. “I have not been introduced to the lady,” he returned mildly.
“Miss Cavanaugh is not the sort a man of your rank, breeding, and propriety would extend the smallest encouragement, my dear brother. She is neither handsome nor fashionable, and her connections are deplorable!”
“Not handsome, Selina? I’ve never known you to be petty.”
Her eyes widened. “I—”
“Miss Cavanaugh is one of the prettiest ladies I’ve ever seen.”
His sister gasped, and he smiled. “Do not be dramatic,” he admonished lightly. “I can admire a stunning jewel without coveting it.”
She flushed. “Please do not seek an introduction! Keep your admiration at a distance. I would not be able to bear mother’s upset nerves when the gossip rags mention it!” said Selina reprovingly. "She is without a dowry or any important connections. It is rumored her father lives abroad with a mistress and bastards! Who could ever align with such a scandalous family is beyond me."
Christopher pressed a kiss to his sister’s cheek and extricated himself from her matchmaking clutches. Both his sisters had pleaded with him to attend, and far as he was concerned, he’d done his duty. It was not in him to dance with anyone tonight or deflect the sly flirtatious hints from those who wished to be a duchess. He had appeared to soothe their ruffled nerves. His gaze cut once more to Miss Cavanaugh who spoke to a woman who looked remarkably like her, only slenderer in her carriage. Her mother he assumed. The ladies conferred with their heads close together. The older lady swayed, pressing a hand to her lips in evident distress. No doubt the actions of Mr. Nigel Williamsfield had been imparted.
The ladies made their way through the crowd, and not wanting to be too obvious and incite speculation, Christopher removed his regard from Miss Cavanaugh and headed away from the crush toward the hallway. Instead of calling for the carriage, he went through the door opened by the butler.
It was still early, barely midnight. Several carriages were queuing, one carriage drawing away as one pulled up still delivering guests. The chilly night washed over Christopher, and he strolled past the line of carriages, apart from the revelry. Oddly, Miss Cavanaugh lingered on his mind. Had her carriage been brought around? He hadn’t seen her in the hallway or outside on the steps. Had she snuck into the gardens with her mother?
He was confident Miss Cavanaugh had not recogniz
ed him as the duke of Carlyle, for she had not descended into the usual tricks many young ladies of society tried to employ, hoping to compromise him into marriage. Miss Cavanaugh had been positioned primly to cry foul and bring down the scrutiny of society upon their heads. That was one of the reasons he’d remained silent upon her entry. Christopher had been secure in his anonymity in the shadowed corner of the library and had been confident she would not stay long. Then Nigel had entered and revealed himself to be the worst of cads.
How brave and proud she had been in her response to the man’s betrayal. There had been no swooning fits, no pots of watering tears, no desperate pleas that he was her hope, nor had she tried to fling herself at him. Her reaction had been one of quiet dignity, and for the first time in years, he had found his interest captivated by a young lady of the ton. When she'd let down her guard, dissolved into heart-breaking tears and curses, his interest had soared.
Now, what to do about it? Surely, after never feeling such curiosity or admiration for another on such a fleeting encounter, it bore study? He smiled at his whimsy. He navigated the dangerous waters of high society with effortless finesse born from years of practice. Christopher had avoided the mouse traps set by many maters of the ton. It wasn’t that he had no wish to marry. Far from it. A duchess and children were inevitable. He knew his duty. It was the same of all previous dukes in his family. To continue their rich legacy, secure an heir, keep the family fortunes in tack, and keep their name scandal-free.
These lessons had been imprinted in his mind and heart from he was a lad of four years, sitting atop his father's shoulders as they strode through the apple orchards. From an early age, he'd understood the pride and prestige of his line and appreciated all that would be required of him once he became of age.
He’d been the 9th duke of Carlyle for the last four years, and he had done his most damn to uphold all the expectations of his prestigious title. Except for one. He hadn't married. All previous dukes had been wedded by six and twenty, and their heir and spare had been in the nursery by eight and twenty. The expectation was that he would marry a genteel, privileged lady without a hint of scandal to her name—a proper duchess who would set examples for the other ladies of society on proper etiquette and decorum.
At thirty years of age, he was still a bachelor with no prospect for a duchess on the horizon. His mother was beside herself, his sisters were adamant to fix this discrepancy, and he was…well contented with the situation. Only because he hadn’t found her. Once he’d said that to his good friend Edward, the Marquess of Bancroft and the man had stared at him stupidly and declared all women were the same. Soft thighs and bosom to cradle a man and offer him sweet intimacy. All like needlework, balls, and gossips. And if he spoke to one lady, he conversed with them all.
Christopher disagreed. Yet he wasn't altogether sure exactly what he looked for in his future duchess. The idea of someone as strict and proper as the previous duchesses was unappealing to him. While he was honor bound not to embarrass his title, he wanted someone he would like…admire…feel desire for, not a paragon of icy civilities like his mother and grandmother. Dear God, he loved them dearly, but no. And he wanted something more than admiration and lust, a rigidness to duty and decorum, but since he’d never experienced it before, it was undefinable. He believed when he found her, he would know.
His friends thought him an idiot for having such a belief. And after years of avoiding the marriage-minded maters, for the briefest while, a few moments past when he’d stared at the stranger’s blotched tear-stained face. Something unknown had quickened in him and had silently asked the question…is it you?
The ball and the revelry behind him, he turned onto St. James’s Street making his way to his townhouse on Grosvenor street. For the first time in his life, the question had stirred, and it was for a woman his mother and family would never approve him. He smiled, genuinely wondering.
Is it you Miss Pippa Cavanaugh?
Chapter 3
“I fear we are ruined, my dear,” Lady Lavinia Cavanaugh said with a deep melancholy sigh. “Nigel was your only chance.” Before leaning forward to pick up her quill and sheaf of paper, the Baroness patted her elegantly coiffed hair to ensure nary a strand was out of place and smoothed down her ivory silk day dress at the front. Her mother always hid her hurt well by ensuring her mode of dress was impeccable.
“You are beautiful, mamma,” Pippa said with a soft smile.
Her mother nodded, and a pleased flush had lent some color to her cheeks. For the last three days, she had been wan and listless.
“Our only hope now is to write to your father’s heir, Mr. Winston Bellamy. He is unwed, and a pleasant young man. He’s a second cousin so an attachment between you two would not be frowned upon. I’m certain I can direct his interest toward your charms.”
Pippa lowered the book she’d been reading onto her lap. “Mamma, please. We have each other, and if we keep practicing sound economy, we shall be quite fine.”
Light gray eyes a replica of her own settled on her. “Nigel courted you for several months, Pippa. He made promises to you…to me, and now this is what we are greeted with today." She slapped the newspaper on the small walnut table between them. "How are we to ever recover from this? How can I not do everything to prepare for your future when you are ruined?”
“There was no public announcement of an attachment between us, mamma,” Pippa said patiently though her mother was fully aware. “There will be no scandal. Only disappointment and dashed hopes on our part.” She thought of the stranger, the only other person who knew that there had been some expectations. Surely, he would not tell a soul. The man had not seemed a person prone to gossip and speculation. “But we will rally and press onward. I am certain the way is not to write to papa’s heir.”
Another heavy sigh from her mother settled in the room. Then she said, “Another letter came for you.”
Pain and joy in equal measure rolled through Pippa. “May I have it?” she asked quietly.
Her mother plucked a letter from the stack of correspondence before her and handed it to Pippa. She quickly grabbed a letter cutter and sliced open the seal.
Dearest Pippa,
How I grieve to learn of the difficult circumstances of the estates. Unfortunately, I am not in a position to send funds at this moment. My dear Anna is with child again—
Pippa flinched, her fingers clenching and crumpling the paper. Unable to read anymore, she folded it and slipped it into the pocket of her dress.
“What does it say?”
She snapped her gaze to her mother. In all the letters she’d ever received, not once had her mother queried their content. Pippa had been the stubborn one to impart specific news of her father. "Mamma—”
"I know you, my dear. You made a request for money…money that he can only get from his harlot.” A fretful pause ensued, and her mother resolutely held her regard. “What does your father say?”
Pippa flushed. “He regrets that he cannot help.”
Her mother flinched before bravely lifting her chin. “I will find a solution—”
“No mamma! I will find a way for us. Please let me share the burden. Will you attend Viscountess Shaw’s ball tonight?” she asked hoping to divert her mother away from today's woes. Though Pippa feared they would be the woes of tomorrow and years to come.
Her father did not share their burden and completely absolved himself of all responsibilities toward his wife and daughter in England. He only cared about his dearest Anna and their children, and it had never been more evident. She'd written a heartfelt plea, outlining their dire circumstance without whitewashing anything, and he'd still refused. Her heart ached with a fierceness that almost made her cry.
Are we so insignificant to you, papa?
Pippa wondered if in America, where he lived if his children were branded as bastards, or did he pretend to be married to his Anna? How did he live with himself? And how she resented that she still cared for him and hoped h
is family was not ostracized.
“You are still a coward, Papa,” she whispered, hating the tears that smarted behind her lids.
This burden to provide for their future now rested on her shoulders. Her mamma needed her to be strong, and inventive. They could not rely on the goodwill of the countess forever, and they would have to return to Crandleforth soon. They’d already retrenched, and a few servants had been let go to everyone’s distress. The thirty-room manor with its extensive ground was taken care of by a very loyal skeleton staff. With their coffers running on empty, and tenants unable to pay an increase on rent, Pippa needed a wealthy husband who would not mind she came without a dowry and a past scandal, or she could seek employment.
It spoke volumes that employment was more appealing to Pippa. The notion would horrify her mother’s sensibilities, but she could potentially earn enough money to ensure they were fed and clothed. Two gentlemen, and she used the honorific loosely, whom she had relied on had so easily betrayed the trust she'd given them. It was time to forge a path using her wits and intelligence.
She closed her eyes, hating the desperate fear worming through her heart.
The countess entered the sitting room, her cheerful manners preceding her like sunshine.
“Lavinia dear, how morose you appear this morning! Come we cannot have that. Shall we take tea together?”
Her mother brightened, and Pippa's heart eased to see it. She greeted the countess, and conversation on the latest gossip in the ton ensued. Pippa excused herself and hurried up the winding stairs and went to her chamber. Once there, she knelt and drew a small trunk from beneath her bed. She opened it and removed several bound books. Pushing to her feet, she opened the first book which had been smartly written by her.