by Erica Ridley
Tommy perked up. “Dessert?”
As they inched their way through the teeming masses, the music grew louder. Every window in the bustling ballroom was open to allow in fresh air, although the crowd was too dense for much circulation.
Tommy stopped in her tracks, her face gray. “There’s Philippa.”
“Is Faircliffe with her?”
“Not yet.”
“How does she look?” Chloe closed her eyes so as not to see. “Like someone who’s about to marry England’s most eligible duke, like it or not?”
That Philippa didn’t even want to marry Lawrence twisted the knife all the worse—not just for Chloe but for Lawrence and Philippa. What kind of marriage would that be? It sounded even worse than being alone.
“She looks beautiful,” Tommy whispered back, her voice strained. “She’s wearing a purple and azure gown with Antwerp lace. I’ve never seen her look prettier. Anyone would want to marry her.”
“Wonderful,” Chloe groaned. “Exactly the report I was hoping for.”
Tommy glanced at her sharply. “Do you wish her to be unwell?”
“No,” Chloe admitted. “I like Philippa, and I suspect she’s in misery. She may be the only person who wants this union less than we do. Oh, why must aristocrats be so complicated? I’ve known fishwives who married for love.”
“Note to my future self,” Tommy murmured. “Fall in love with a fishwife next time.”
“Fish spinster,” Chloe corrected. “If she’s a fishwife, you’re already too late. I’ve come to believe timing is the biggest predictor of success in matters of the heart.”
“Fish spinster,” Tommy echoed with a sharp nod. “Don’t act surprised when it happens. I’ll tell everyone it was your idea.”
“Then your first mistake was taking my advice,” Chloe said weakly. “Everything my heart tells me to do is a bad idea. For example”—her breath caught—“there’s Faircliffe.”
Tommy froze in place. “Is he heading toward Philippa?”
“He is not.” Chloe frowned. “He’s dancing with Lady Eunice.”
“But this is a waltz.” Tommy’s brow creased. “There’s rarely more than two in a night. What could it mean?”
“That he’s delaying the inevitable,” Chloe said. “Or…that the gossips are wrong. Lawrence is still on the marriage mart.”
She tried to burst the joy that bubbled inside her at the thought. What if it was true? What if, even after this party, Lawrence remained the most eligible, extremely not-betrothed, very bachelor duke in all of England a little while longer?
For a fleeting moment she let herself pretend she was the one he wanted most.
Her bosom filled with wistfulness. Lawrence was the Duke of Faircliffe. He was visible and powerful, and his duchess would be, too. What would it be like to be remembered and respected amongst the beau monde?
You’ll never find out, she reminded herself sharply. He would never choose a Wynchester, and she would reject the suit of anyone who did not accept her family, fully and publicly.
Faircliffe was not that man.
She was glad he had chosen Philippa. Glad, glad, glad. She would keep telling herself so until it came true.
Tommy grabbed her arm in excitement. “I think I found lemon cakes.”
“Wait. The music stopped.” Chloe took a deep, shuddering breath. “Now he’ll go straight to Philippa.”
Tommy glanced up over Chloe’s shoulder and shook her head. “He’s not looking at Philippa. I’d better get those cakes.”
“But—”
Tommy vanished, leaving Faircliffe standing in her place as though the crowd had played the most cunning sleight of hand.
Lawrence gazed at her as though she were the most fascinating painting in his entire fine collection.
Had there ever been a man so handsome or so dangerous? He was freshly combed and pressed, a paper doll come to life—sharp edges and all.
She preferred his cravat crushed between them and his hair tousled by her fingers.
That would not happen ever again.
“I wish…” His eyes searched hers. “I cannot put off my duty to my estate and my title any longer.”
Her stomach sank. She didn’t ask what he meant.
He told her anyway. “Mr. and Mrs. York are hoping tonight’s ball will feature a special announcement.”
“I know.” Her fingers curled into fists. “Everyone knows. Just do it.”
“I’m working on it,” he muttered. “I’m reminding myself of all the reasons I must do this.”
“You told me yourself that she’s what you want,” Chloe said, her words sour. “A perfect highborn family to carry on the Faircliffe legacy, scandal-free.”
None of which was anything Chloe could offer.
“I know.” A muscle flexed at his jaw. His gaze was hot on hers. “I know.”
“Then go,” she said quietly, before he could make things worse by hinting at the possibility of Chloe becoming his mistress.
The only thing worse than being replaced and forgotten was being tucked away in the darkness on purpose.
She would rather remain a proud Wynchester spinster than some man’s secret shame.
22
Lord Southerby stepped into Lawrence’s path before he could reach the Yorks.
Lawrence gritted his teeth. He was not in the mood to talk about Chloe—or business affairs. “I don’t have my portion to invest yet, but I will before the end of the season.”
“So you said.” The earl gave a lazy shrug and nodded in the direction from which Lawrence had come. “Quite a lot of interest you’ve been showing in Miss Wynchester lately, hmm?”
Lawrence could barely even walk away without longing to sneak another glance at her over his shoulder. He’d just been at her side moments before, and yet every time he glimpsed her he felt as if he were standing at the helm of a ship. Her presence had force, like a strong wind buffeting him off his feet.
Except this time his sails carried him to a different shore.
“I’ve no claim on her,” he forced himself to reply. “I… hope she makes a splendid match.”
“Doubtless someone will bite.” Southerby’s lips stretched in a slow smile—the wolfish one mothers warned their daughters about. “I find her intriguing. She seems like the sort of woman one might like to know.”
“She is,” Lawrence agreed, before he could stop himself.
And why should he stop himself? Or the Earl of Southerby, rather? The raffish lord was a well-connected gentleman with no debts to pay and a promising development project that would increase his already considerable fortune. He was charming, intelligent, friendly… Dashing Lord Southerby was practically perfect in every way.
He made Lawrence’s stomach roil.
“She has no dowry,” he told Southerby. “The new heir is rich, but Miss Wynchester is not.”
The earl looked as though Lawrence had sprouted horns. “What do I care about dowries?”
Bull’s-eye. A perfect arrow. That was the difference between the two men. One must wed for money, and the other could pursue anyone he wished.
“And before you tell me she’s from a scandalous family, I know that as well,” Southerby added. “According to the gossip columns, I happen to be considered somewhat scandalous myself. Miss Wynchester might not wish to waltz with a ‘shameless rakehell’ like me.” He cuffed Lawrence on the shoulder. “Relax, Faircliffe. All I’m looking for is someone interesting to dance with.”
Lawrence clenched his fists.
The earl might only be thinking of a single dance, rather than a lifetime of marriage, but every moment in Chloe’s company fanned Lawrence’s desire for more. He had no doubt the earl would feel the same. Chloe could be the one to bring a “shameless rakehell” like Southerby up to scratch.
But he had no right to care whom she married. He was supposed to be chasing Miss York.
“If you’ll excuse me.” He sidestepped the earl.
Southerby might be about to whisk Chloe off her feet, but Lawrence didn’t have to watch it happen. It was time to stand up with Miss York for their set.
Without looking back, he closed the final distance. “I believe this dance is mine?”
Miss York laid her hand on his forearm without comment, but her mother stepped forward to whisper into Lawrence’s ear, “Is this the moment?”
“For my minuet with your daughter?” he asked, misunderstanding on purpose. “Yes, I’m quite certain. Miss York, if I may?”
“Good-bye, Mother,” she said flatly.
“There’s no ‘good-bye,’” her mother spluttered. “I’ll be watching. Give me a sign when—”
The opening chords drowned out whatever else Mrs. York meant to say.
Lawrence barely arranged himself and Miss York in position in time to begin the dance with the others.
Although he tried not to look, his gaze flicked over her shoulder toward Chloe.
She was not dancing with Southerby. Chloe and her great-aunt were ducking out before the song had ended. Disappearing without saying good-bye. His chest ached. It was as though a hole had opened within him.
When she left, Chloe took the air from his lungs with her.
He returned his gaze to Miss York, trying his damnedest for a pleasant smile. Perhaps Chloe’s sudden absence would allow him to concentrate on fulfilling his duty, as he should have been doing all along.
Miss York gazed back at him, her expression level and her eyes blank as she completed each step of the minuet without fault.
She was a clever woman. Everyone said so, even if Miss York was disinclined to share her intellect with Lawrence. He would not force the matter. Animated conversation was not a prerequisite for the role of duchess. It wasn’t as if a husband and wife were expected to spend lazy afternoons discussing art or debating politics. Not as he’d done with Chloe.
Miss York would bear him an heir—and, if not, a daughter or two—and he and his wife would be as happy as…as…
All right, perhaps they wouldn’t be easy company.
They’d be indifferent strangers.
Lawrence would be hard at work on parliamentary matters. And Miss York would be…reading, perhaps. He’d restore the ducal estate with her dowry, beget a few children, and then enjoy an extraordinarily dull, loveless marriage, like those of their class often did.
It was not what Lawrence wanted at all.
Anxiety crept beneath his skin like ants. He tried not to let his steps falter in the dance. This was the moment he’d been preparing for. He was Wellington, poised to win or die trying at Waterloo. Miss York was…Napoleon Bonaparte? What was happening with this metaphor? Marriage wasn’t war. There was no reason for proposing to feel like being run through with a bayonet.
He was Lawrence Gosling, eighth Duke of Faircliffe, and he, like all but one of the previous holders of the title, would do what was right.
He performed the steps in silence to give a sharper look at Miss York. An unsettling sensation twisted in his stomach. Did she wish she could choose someone else?
Perhaps she’d been unenthusiastic about the prospect of becoming a powerful duchess married to a virtual stranger because she, too, had been hoping to find love.
Was that the man he had hoped to become? One who improved his own lot at the expense of others? He could not live with himself if he did right by his title only to do his bride terribly wrong.
“Do you want to marry me?” he asked suddenly.
She stumbled. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
“I’m asking you if you want to marry me.”
“If you ask, I’ll say yes.”
“Because it’s what you want?”
“Because it’s my duty.” Her eyes were tired. “Isn’t it yours?”
Not like this. He was desperate, but not a monster.
“It is not my duty to beget children on someone who would prefer I not visit her bedchamber.”
The words were crude and ungentlemanly, but neither of them deserved a future in which he must force himself upon her to do his duty, and that she must allow herself to be violated to do hers.
“I know my responsibility,” she mumbled.
That did not sound promising at all.
“If you were not honor-bound to obey your parents,” he asked, “how interested would you be in pursuing wedlock to me?”
She completed a few steps of the minuet in silence, her eyes never leaving his.
And then she sighed. “About as interested as I imagine you are in me. In that, at least, we are well matched.”
He couldn’t do it. Not to her and not to himself. He would not become the devil she feared in the night. Not even for a dukedom.
“Then let me ease your mind.” He gave a tight smile. “I shall refrain from asking a question to which you would be forced to assent in opposition to your own wishes, thereby saving us several decades of misery. You’re free, Miss York. At least, as free as I have the power to grant you.”
An uneasy prickle slid down his spine. He pushed it aside. He would find a way to save his estate and his standing without hurting anyone else in the process.
Somehow.
“Thank you.” Miss York’s tight posture relaxed, and her steps resumed a steady rhythm. “Are congratulations due to Miss Wynchester?”
“No,” he said with a sigh. No matter how passionate he felt. “Since you’re familiar with duty, you understand why not.”
“Mmm,” was all Miss York said in reply.
Since he couldn’t choose Chloe, it was bloody good fortune he wasn’t in love with her or anything inopportune like that.
Miss York kept time with the music. “When will you take your painting back?”
Lawrence nearly tripped. “You don’t want it?”
She smiled. “I was only interested in your library.”
His neck flushed. “Until you noticed it contained fewer books every year?”
“No, that would be the best part: filling up the blank spaces with whatever I pleased.” Her steps were light. “I could tell you cared more about the artwork than the gala.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Is that why you said you liked the dancing hobgoblins?”
“Anyone liking it should have raised suspicion,” she chided, her eyes twinkling playfully now that she needn’t fear being burdened with Lawrence and his questionable taste in art. “I doubted anyone had complimented you on it before, so, to be kind, I thought I would. I never expected you to give it to me.”
The only reason he’d been willing to part with that painting was because it wasn’t special. His father had another just like it.
His skin itched with shame. “I thought it could make one of us happy.”
“Now you know.” Miss York’s expression was wry. “I’ll have it sent back posthaste.”
Now that they’d officially called off their unofficial union, the finality of their decision made him light-headed with panic. “I’ll tell your parents—”
“Allow me. I will say I refused, which is what I should have done from the beginning. You and I both knew we did not suit. It is time I did what was best for me.” She glanced over his shoulder and winced. “Do you mind if we wait until tomorrow? I’ll need to think of the best way to inform my parents of the new development, and I’d rather not ruin the party.”
“Tomorrow is more than fine,” he assured her. “There’s no one else I must hurry off to propose to.”
“Hmm.” Miss York said nothing more, but her eyes were full of skepticism.
Very well, Lawrence was in a hurry. There were accounts to settle and wages to pay, and none of it would be possible without a large dowry.
But he also had to live with the decision he made. His bride would have to live with him, too. The brief courtship with Miss York had shown him that “forever” was far too long to be wed to someone who would rather not be.
Even if his future bride’s motivation was just as mercenary as his�
��a dukedom in exchange for a dowry—as long as she was happy with the arrangement, and the money would be his on their wedding day, Lawrence would do as duty must.
Chloe must understand the predicament all too well. She was doing the same thing. When she’d come to collect her favor, she’d admitted frankly that she had no dowry and was on the hunt for a wealthy suitor.
That man wasn’t Lawrence. He could no longer claim to be solvent. He was losing his town house.
But until he and Chloe both found what they were looking for, perhaps they could have each other.
If only for a few more stolen moments.
23
With dawn came the morning papers. Chloe couldn’t bear to look. She didn’t have to. Graham inhaled every word before breakfast.
There was no engagement announcement. Nor was there any gossip that the betrothal had been delayed. Other than a description of Philippa’s gown and a faithful recounting of which sets she’d danced with Faircliffe, there was no further gossip about them whatsoever.
Chloe rubbed her temples. “What does it mean?”
“It means,” Elizabeth said with a shrug, “it’ll be in tomorrow’s paper. These were likely on the printing press long before the dancing stopped.”
“I’ll hear before that,” Graham assured Chloe. “When I make my rounds in an hour, I’ll learn all about the betrothal and report back to you.”
“Please don’t,” she said. “I do not want to hear any details at all.”
Randall, the Wynchesters’ butler, stepped into the dining room bearing a silver tray. “Letter for Miss Chloe.”
“Philippa.” Chloe groaned.
Perhaps Philippa wished to spread the good news to her reading circle before the gossip columns did it for her.
The last thing Chloe felt like doing was congratulating her on her fine catch.
But the letter wasn’t from Philippa.
The Duke of Faircliffe’s seal was right there in the middle.
“I…I’ll read this in my room.” Chloe rose on shaky legs.
Tommy leapt to her feet. “I’ll come with you.”
As soon as they were alone in Chloe’s chamber, she broke the wax seal and read the letter’s contents.