by Erica Ridley
“Intercourse is not a relationship,” Michael corrected haughtily. He glanced away before Gideon realized he was more right than he knew.
In the nine-and-twenty years of his life, Michael had spent the latter half of it in pursuit of pleasure… and had particularly enjoyed this past decade. The one thing he had not yet experienced was an actual relationship. He’d been too focused on flirtation to ever come close to falling in love. If the sketches lining the Cloven Hoof were any indication, he had become too good at his task. Ladies couldn’t see past his Lord of Pleasure reputation. And to the men, Michael was simply… a caricature.
“I’ll change my image,” he said suddenly.
Hawkridge choked on his wine. “You’ll what?”
“Reshape my image,” Michael repeated. After all, he had countless other interests. Nature, music, astronomy. The caricaturists didn’t know about those pastimes because they were solitary endeavors. Surely it couldn’t be that hard to prove he was more than a pretty face. “I very much hope my future wife finds endless pleasure in our marriage bed, but that is not the only thing I have to offer.”
The entire gaming hell went silent at this pronouncement.
Even Gideon stared back at him in amusement. “What else do you have to offer?”
“Honestly, Wainwright.” Lord Hawkridge gestured at this morning’s caricature. “Just being present when you enter a room is enough to get a lady’s name mentioned in the scandal columns. You couldn’t stay out of them if you tried.”
“I could.” Michael rolled back his shoulders. Perhaps it would not be easy, but it was far from impossible. “In fact, I will. I’ll prove to you and to London at large that there’s more to the Earl of Wainwright than mere scandal fodder.”
“How will you prove that?” Hawkridge asked doubtfully. “By performing some grand public feat? Or simply staying out of the scandal columns?”
Gideon’s betting book thumped onto the bar. “Let’s limit it to staying out of the scandal columns, just to give the poor sap a chance. How long do you think he can go without his name in the gossip columns or his face in the comics? A week? A fortnight?”
“That’s a fool’s bet,” Hawkridge protested. “Did you not see today’s drawing? Wainwright wouldn’t be able to stay out of the papers for a single day, much less reshape his image.”
“Thirty days,” Michael said. Hadn’t he wanted to cut the pages on the new nature journals he’d bought for his library? The time would fly by. “If I stay out of the scandal columns for an entire month, will you agree that I’ve changed my image?”
“You’d have changed your entire personality.” The marquess shook his head. “You are the Lord of Pleasure. It cannot be done.”
“Not his personality,” Gideon said slowly. He pushed the Lord of Pleasure caricature back toward Hawkridge. “Take another look. Wainwright is right. They’re not drawing anything he did. They draw society’s perception of him. I’ll give you forty days.”
“Forty it is.” Michael inclined his head. It was just a matter of perspective. Had the caricaturists drawn him admiring the sky with his telescope or reading nature journals, there would be no story.
“Twenty quid!” called a voice from one of the gaming tables. “I’ve got twenty quid that says the earl won’t make a fortnight without being in the papers.”
“I’ve got fifty that says he shan’t make it to the end of the week,” called another.
“I’ve got no money at all,” Hawkridge muttered, “but only a fool would let this wager pass him by. Put me down for ten quid, Gideon. I’ll scrape up the blunt somewhere.”
Michael stared at him. “You’re a true friend.”
“I’m adding a hundred-pound rider,” Gideon announced to the room. “If he does make the forty days, it’ll be because he found a wife. Any takers?”
The room was silent.
Even Michael stared at Gideon in disbelief. “I promised to stay out of the papers, not to become a monk. I’ve no intention of getting leg-shackled.”
He would find a countess and beget an heir, but not for another ten years, at least. A proper lady would want a bland, boring life. Until then, he would not allow life’s pleasures to pass him by.
“Now that you’re going to be respectable for a month, what are you going to do with your time?” called one of the gamblers. “Go to sewing circles and the Grenville musicales?”
“Ha,” called another. “The only music Wainwright likes is the music he makes with his ‘models’ in the harp room.”
“What if I do? Anything that happens inside private chambers is fair game, as long as it stays out of the scandal columns,” Michael reminded them as he slid one hundred pounds across the bar to take Gideon’s wager.
Forty days of publicly respectable behavior. No caricatures. No gossip. No wife.
How hard could it be?
Chapter 2
Miss Camellia Grenville stood just outside her mother’s sitting room, too nervous to bring herself to knock upon the door. She inspected her skirt for wrinkles.
Why had she been summoned to her mother’s private parlor? Camellia was never summoned anywhere. She was the good daughter. Her headstrong younger sisters were frequently called to the carpet, but Camellia? Never. She was the sensible one. The shy one. The elder spinster sister who would be perfectly happy to live the rest of her quiet life in the same living quarters she’d enjoyed since leaving the nursery years earlier.
Camellia never rocked the boat because she liked her life exactly as it was. Comfortable. Predictable. Never more than an arm’s reach from home and family. Surrounded with books and music and laughter. Her biggest fear was that one day, her parents would tire of the unseemly rambunctiousness of their youngest two girls, and marry Bryony and Dahlia off to the first available suitors, leaving the house preternaturally quiet and Camellia all alone.
Her hands went clammy. Perhaps that was exactly what was happening. And she, as elder sister, would be expected to break the news.
She swallowed hard and forced herself to knock upon the door.
“Daughter, is that you? Come inside, darling. Tea will arrive at any moment.”
Camellia warmed. Not only had she never before received an unexpected summons, she also had never been invited to a private tea. The idea sounded lovely. Tea with Mother would no doubt be quite a departure from Camellia’s usual spot nestled into a safe corner of the girls’ sitting room to watch the younger two giggle and argue. Yet the lump of worry in her stomach only increased.
She smoothed the wrinkles from her day dress and entered the room.
Mother sat perched on the edge of a chaise longue, her silver-streaked brown locks expertly pinned into a gorgeous chignon. With a wave of her perfectly manicured fingers, she gestured for Camellia to take the seat opposite.
“Sit, darling. A lady must never stand about like a servant awaiting orders.”
Camellia sat, well aware that doing so was still following orders.
“Is something amiss, Mother?”
“Amiss?” Mother clasped her fingers to her chest in something akin to rapture. “Quite the opposite. The future is finally falling into place. Darling, you’re going to be married!”
“I’m…” Words failed her as Camellia gripped the edges of a wingback chair, grateful than she’d taken the advice to sit down before her mother’s pronouncement could knock her over. “Me? Married? To whom?”
“His name is Mr. Irving Bost, and he is a mature, respectable gentleman in want of a mature, respectable bride. He has chosen you for that honor. Congratulations, darling.”
Camellia stared at her mother in utter stupefaction. Not because she didn’t understand what was happening—but because she did. The news could not have been worse.
In polite conversation, a “mature” gentleman meant he was old enough to be her father. Conversely, a “mature” bride meant that Camellia was a spinster, and ought to consider herself lucky to have him.
She
had a vague recollection of meeting Mr. Bost. He wasn’t especially handsome, but he had all his hair and his teeth and a large library and a kind smile. He was unexceptional and unobjectionable.
And if she didn’t stop this right now, he was going to be her husband.
“He’s twice my age,” she stammered in desperation.
Her mother airily waved a hand. “Many marriages are that way. Why, I was twenty years younger than your father, and everything worked out fine, did it not? If anything, Mr. Bost’s age is an advantage. He has already sown his wild oats and is ready to settle down. Why would you want an immature lad when you could have a grown man?”
“Not immature,” Camellia interjected, unable to hide her frustration. “I simply meant less…”
Less what? Stodgy had been the first word to come to mind, followed by boring, both complaints that would have impressed her mother as being quite ironic indeed.
Unfortunately, Miss Camellia Grenville was not known for being stodgy and boring. Miss Camellia Grenville wasn’t known at all, because she was stodgy and boring.
In fact, she found it unlikely that Mr. Bost—or, well, anyone—would have called upon her parents seeking the nondescript elder sister’s hand in marriage. More likely, he had glimpsed Bryony or Dahlia somewhere outrageous and had come in search of one of them, only to be told that the Grenvilles could not possibly part with one of their younger daughters until the eldest had made her match, and wouldn’t Camellia do just as well?
“Is it my dowry?” she asked weakly.
The daughter of a baron was not the same as the daughter of a duke or an earl, but her family was by no means poor. All three sisters boasted a respectable dowry, expressly designed for the purpose of attracting suitors.
Mother laughed. “Darling, you needn’t worry about money ever again. Mr. Bost may not be Croesus, but his accounts are quite flush. You shan’t want for a single thing.”
Wouldn’t she? Camellia pushed the thought away and forced herself to smile. She would make the best of the situation. She always did.
“We would live here in London?” she asked.
“Northumberland, actually,” Mother replied. “Mr. Bost has a picturesque estate not far from the Scottish border. Positively enchanting, he tells us.”
All the way north to Scotland? Horror engulfed Camellia. Nowhere could be farther from London, from her family, from everything and everyone she knew and loved. That wasn’t enchantment. That was hell.
She tried to think. What else did she recall about Mr. Bost? He admired the out-of-doors, but only from afar. His propensity to wheeze during any exertion meant he not only wouldn’t be riding horses with her across the rolling hills, but also Camellia’s dreams of nature walks and other such activities with her future husband would stay just that. Dreams.
Mr. Bost wasn’t destitute. He did not need her dowry. He wanted a nice quiet mouse to live in his nice quiet cottage in the middle of the nice quiet countryside. Who better than Camellia Grenville? Her fingers went numb. This was a disaster. She might be the answer to his problems, but he would be the cause of hers.
She didn’t want to seal herself inside nature-proof walls with no one but him for company. They had never spent more than a few moments together. He was a stranger. Her sisters were her best friends. His home was at least a six-day drive. Even if he were a royal prince, living so far from her family would be a nightmare. Her hands trembled at the thought.
“Look, darling.” Mother lifted a hand toward the door as a pair of maids brought in the tea service. “I had Cook send up your favorite lemon cakes. Have as many as you like. We’re celebrating!”
Camellia was closer to screaming than celebrating.
She simply could not possibly bring herself to do it. Could not, would not, wed a man twice her age and live the rest of her life far away from her family.
Except her parents weren’t giving her any other options.
If Mr. Bost wished to have her, then so he would. That was what being a dutiful daughter meant. This was her path. Camellia had always been the good girl. She would do as she was told. As she had always done.
And because she would do the right thing—because she was already firmly on the shelf and her desperate parents had despaired of receiving any offers for her at all—by accepting this suitor, Camellia’s younger sisters could finally have the attention they’d been denied due to the presence of an unwed elder sister in the house. She should be pleased. Relieved to be out of their hair.
Mr. Bost was not her choice. She couldn’t be more miserable.
Her stomach sank. She’d always dreamed that choosing a suitor would be the one moment in her life when she was actually able to do what she wanted. But it was not to be. Once she was married, it wouldn’t even be her well-meaning parents making all her decisions for her. It would be her husband. A stranger whom she would be expected to obey in all things. Even if it meant her own skin had become a cage.
“Such a fine match,” Mother said with obvious pride. “Mr. Bost is a kind man. He might even allow you to sing a little when you’re not occupied with your other responsibilities. Even if he is not so musically inclined, I am certain no husband could object to you humming quietly in a separate room.”
The thought failed to conjure images of wedded bliss. Camellia’s fingers shook. Singing was the one thing she loved almost as much as her family. It was more than a mere hobby. It was her passion. The only time she truly felt free. And now perhaps that too would be gone forever. “He’s still downstairs speaking with Father, I presume?”
“Oh, I’m afraid not. Mr. Bost left at once. He must be out of London by now.”
“He… left?” Camellia echoed in disbelief.
Mother selected another teacake. “It’s a very long drive back to Northumberland, darling. He was wise not to dawdle. There are highwaymen in the dark.”
“But… did he not wish to talk to me?”
Mother’s forehead creased in genuine befuddlement. “About what?”
About what, indeed. Camellia rubbed her temples in frustration. This was a nightmare. She had never felt more like a nonentity. And yet, what had she expected?
Her parents had never asked for her opinion about anything at all. Not because they were cruel, but because it had not occurred to them that she might have one. They never asked what their daughter thought or wanted because it was irrelevant. She knew what was expected of her. They were confident she would do the right thing. As she always did.
“I’m delighted for you, darling.” Mother leaned forward to give Camellia an excited pat on the knee. “It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving young lady. You’ve never given your father or me the least bit of trouble, and we know you’ll do the same for Mr. Bost. Your father even told him so. ‘A perfect wife.’ Mr. Bost will return in a month to sign the contract and submit the first banns. You’ll be wed in no time!”
Camellia was far from delighted. Her flesh crawled at the thought of being married to a man who chose a wife without consulting the woman in question.
Yes, she knew such circumstances were not unusual. There were many young ladies desperate to secure their futures, who would consider Mr. Bost a fine catch. Amongst Camellia’s set, marriages were often business transactions, political deals, necessary evils to beget an heir. But a part of her had always hoped…
Her teacup rattled against its saucer, and she placed it back on the tray before it fell from her lap. Her appetite had long since vanished.
“Might I be excused, Mother? The news is… something of a shock.”
“Oh, certainly, darling. You must be dying to share your good fortune with your sisters. Perhaps they will even come to visit you someday!”
Her smile brittle, Camellia pushed herself out of the chair and down the hall before her mother’s well-wishes could destroy her mood even further. Panic sluiced through her veins.
A fine pickle she’d got herself into this time. Northumberland. Mr. Bost. Imposs
ible. There had to be a way out.
Her place was here, with her family. Her sisters counted on her for companionship and advice. She couldn’t leave them. Because of her practical nature and logical mind, her sisters had always considered Camellia the “smart” one. What would they think now? She certainly didn’t feel clever. She felt trapped. Soon, she would be expected to trade the life of a wallflower for one of even more isolated domesticity. Her skin went cold.
If she were a wallflower by choice, by nature, perhaps the prospect would not seem so grim. But she had always done what was expected of her not because of a personal affinity for propriety, but because someone had to be respectable. Their brother Heath was clearly unsuited for the task, and besides—men were judged by a completely different standard.
Which left Camellia. Elder sister to two incorrigible dreamers. Bryony, the hoyden, and Dahlia, the big heart. Both had always looked up to Camellia. Been scolded by their parents that they should be more like their sister. But this was not a path Camellia wished them to follow. She hoped they might find love matches.
Or at least be granted a token consultation prior to presenting themselves to their father.
With a sigh, she peered into the sisters’ shared sitting room. As usual, the girls were in the midst of a heated, animated discussion.
“Lord Wainwright is the soap scum from the bottom of a communal bathing bucket,” Dahlia declared from her habitual perch in one of the large bay windows. She was far too restless to sit behind an escritoire, and preferred to employ a travel writing desk on her knees so she could look out upon London. Today, her red-rimmed eyes were not on the city, but on the battered correspondence piled on her lap. “He has ruined my life, and the lives of two dozen innocent young ladies in the process.”
Camellia’s heart caught in dismay. She had thought her day was as bad as it could get, but that was before someone had hurt her sister. She clenched her fists as anger flooded through her.