An Unlikely Father (2 page)

London—1814

A light dusting of snow had fallen the night before, giving the streets of Mayfair a pristine look except where it had been disturbed by early-morning traffic. The large, elegant town coach moved through the icy streets at a sedate pace until the vehicle came to a stop in front of Lord Hawksworth’s town house on Park Lane.

A footman in white wig and gold livery climbed down from his rear perch and ambled to the carriage door. It was uncertain if his slow pace was due to the cold or his advanced years, an element he held in common with the coachman. From the vehicle, two ladies of like age descended to the pavement, but the grey of their hair had nothing to do with wigs. Nora, Dowager Countess of Hawksworth, and her companion, Miss Luella Millet, were well advanced into their seventies.

As the ladies shook the wrinkles from their gowns, the footman knocked. Despite the early hour, the butler answered the door in a matter of minutes.

“Ah, Bedows, I see you are as efficient as ever,” the dowager remarked as she entered and moved to a fire burning in the elegantly appointed hall.

“You are too kind, my lady.” The butler’s thin face beneath his white hair showed no pleasure at the compliment. He stoically went about the business of helping the ladies remove their wraps, then ushered them upstairs into the drawing room. “I shall inform his lordship of your arrival.”

“You mean warn him, don’t you, Bedows?” Lady Hawksworth chuckled. Perhaps it was the light, but she could swear the servant’s mouth twitched into a bit of a grin.

“Would your ladyship like refreshments while you wait?”

“That is an excellent suggestion since I have no doubt my grandson will keep us waiting for some time.”

The butler made no comment. He closed the door, leaving the ladies alone. Within a very short time he returned with a footman carrying a tray loaded with an assortment of cakes and tea.

The dowager and Miss Millet had already made great inroads into the French cook’s efforts and ordered a second pot of tea by the time Lord Hawksworth arrived in the drawing room. His appearance gave no indication of the haste required to get him out of bed and dressed in under an hour.

Oliver Carson, tenth Earl of Hawksworth, was not a dandy, but he took great pride in dressing in the first style of elegance. At present he wore a simply cut dark
-
green morning coat over a sedate green-striped waistcoat and tan pantaloons. What set him apart from the average man was the elegance of his neckcloth, tied in the Mathematical, a style few could replicate.

As he sauntered into the room to greet his grandmother and her companion, the earl wondered fleetingly what new scandal had reached Lady Hawksworth’s ears. It mattered little, for there had been so many over the past years that he’d gotten quite used to being jarred from his bed at some ungodly hour to explain his actions.

He greeted the ladies and had just settled into a chair when his grandmother surprised him from his complacency.

“Do you never read your correspondence?”

Oliver’s brows rose slightly. “In truth, Grandmother, I discovered years ago that there is little of interest in the letters people send to me. I rarely pay attention to the post. People who write letters are either asking for something, which is a dead bore, or telling you about something they have done which is an even deadlier bore.”

The dowager gave an unladylike grunt at her grandson’s jaded attitude. “Well,
I
sent you two letters summoning you to Woburn on a matter of some urgency. Because of your negligence in reading your messages, I have had to make the long drive to London in this wretched weather.”

The earl propped his head upon his hand, as if to show how tired he was of explaining himself to his interfering grandmother. “You really should not listen to all the gossip your friends tell you about my wicked deeds, madam. That way you wouldn’t have to inconvenience yourself coming to Town to ring a peal over my head.”

“But if I told my friends to tell me only your good deeds, my boy, you should never be spoken of again, or so it seems.”

Oliver laughed. “Surely I am not as bad as that. Why, only last week I succumbed to Lady Chesterly’s entreaties and donated a generous sum to the Foundling Hospital.”

Lady Hawksworth gave a snort. “You cannot fool me into believing you gave a thought to some orphaned brats. I have long known your dislike of anyone, and especially children, disrupting your pursuit of pleasure. This Lady Chesterly must be a complete ninny to be taken in by such an obvious ploy.”

“ ’Twas never her mental prowess or lack thereof that attracted me to the lady, Grandmother.” Oliver gave a wicked grin, then turned to the lady’s companion. “Do you think I might trouble you for some tea, dear Miss Millet?”

The dowager looked at Miss Millet, who’d been sitting quietly during the exchange, as the spinster blushed at the earl’s notice. The ladies exchanged a look which could only be interpreted as “this young man is hopeless.” Then the aged companion began to pour a cup of tea for the earl.

Lady Hawksworth was not to be distracted from the true purpose of her visit. “I did not come to discuss your newest paramour, young man. We have far more important matters to discuss. I want to know what you have done about honoring your promise to your late grandfather?”

Oliver took the cup of tea Miss Millet offered him. He bent forward, dropping a lump of sugar into the liquid, using the time to search his memory for a long
-
forgotten pledge. His grandfather had died some fourteen years earlier. What vow had Oliver foolishly made and forgotten?

At last he looked up at the dowager. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage. I cannot remember having made a promise of any significance to my grandfather.”

“ ’Tis a sad fact that memory fades as one ages, my boy.” The old lady’s eyes glittered with amusement.

“I am five-and-thirty, madam, not five-and-sixty. What was this promise?” Oliver snapped, too often amazed at how his grandmother held the ability to prick his pride.

“ ’Twas made the night of your twenty-first birthday,” the lady announced, watching to see if the date triggered his memory.

The night’s events flashed into Oliver’s mind for the first time in years. A naive young cawker back then, he’d started the evening with anticipation and delight, thinking himself in love. But Lady Rose had driven a knife into his heart all those years ago. He’d come upon her in the gardens in the arms of Colonel Fenn as she was saying that if Oliver came up to scratch, she would marry him for his title and wealth, but her heart would always belong to the soldier.

The memory was no longer painful, but Oliver remembered he’d spent much of the evening in a haze of misery. He’d only wanted to go away to lick his wounded pride, but instead duty to his family and a good dose of champagne had kept him at the party, pretending to enjoy his night. Had he made some promise to his grandfather during those long hours of self-pity and over-indulgence?

“I cannot remember making a promise to anyone.”

Lady Hawksworth’s eyes narrowed. “Do not think you shall be able to slip out of your pledge, for I was present when you swore to marry before your thirty
-
sixth birthday if you had not done your duty before then.”

Oliver nearly shattered the fine bone china as his hand tightened on his teacup from shock. Had he foolishly promised the old earl to wed by the end of this year? He
must
have been completely out of his mind. Or at the very least too deep in his cups to know what he was about. He had no desire to become leg-shackled, now or ever.

He set his cup back on the tray and rose, aware of two pair of curious eyes watching him intently. He went to the window and gazed out at the small, well
-
tended garden, trying to reason his way out of this dilemma.

His thoughts more ordered, he looked back at his grandmother. “If Grandfather requested such a promise, no doubt it was for the sake of a future heir. My brother has provided an heir, and therefore I see no need for me to become entangled in the bonds of matrimony.”

Lady Hawksworth rose with surprising agility for one of her years, marching towards her grandson with purpose. The only sound in the room was the rustling of her deep-green skirts. When she stood in front of him, she squared her shoulders as if she were prepared to do battle. “Are you certain you still have an heir? If you ever paid any attention to your correspondence, you would perhaps have noticed there has been no letter from Anna or James for over two years.”

“Has it been so long?” Oliver frowned. Had something happened to James and his wife? A sharp pain pierced the earl’s chest at the thought that his brother might be dead. He prayed it wasn’t true.

“It has, so you must honor your promise to your grandfather. James and his son might have been eaten by tigers or trampled by elephants for all we know.”

The earl smiled in spite of the dire possibilities. “I never knew you to have such a lurid imagination, Grandmother.”

“Unlike you, I always read Anna’s letters. India is a dangerous place. Will you keep your pledge?” The lady watched her grandson with slate-grey eyes.

Oliver suddenly found himself at a standstill. He didn’t want a wife. He had females aplenty to amuse him, and when he tired of the whims and demands of one, there was always another to take her place. Females were all alike, after all, more interested in a man’s money and rank than in the man himself.

But what did it matter? Didn’t most married people of the
ton
go their separate ways? His life would change very little with a marriage of convenience, should he take a proper wife. If something had happened to his brother, it was Oliver’s responsibility to produce an heir.

“Very well, Grandmother. I shall honor my promise.”

The dowager cocked her head slightly. “Don’t think that I will accept one of Hawksworth’s Harem as a future granddaughter-in-law. She must be a proper lady without the least taint to her reputation.”

Oliver made no comment about his grandparent’s use of Society’s taunt in referring to all the women who’d been under his protection over the years. Instead he wrapped her arm through his, leading her back to where Miss Millet sat. He was aware that the kind of lady he should marry was one of the very innocent females who bored him to death, but there was nothing for it.

As he settled his grandmother again in her chair, a thought occurred which made him smile. “The difficulty is that I am rarely invited to occasions where delicately bred females are in attendance. I shall have a difficult time finding such a lady.”

The dowager’s words quickly wiped the smile from Oliver’s face. “I have thought of that. Knowing you would do what is proper in honoring your promise to your grandfather, I have approached the Marquess of Halcomb on your behalf. Lady Cora Lane is all that you would want in a wife—beautiful, titled and wealthy, her reputation unimpeachable. The marquess is agreeable to such an arrangement. All you need do is make a morning call to announce your intentions to pay your addresses to the lady and the matter can be quickly settled.”

Oliver didn’t think he’d had such a black moment since the night he’d discovered Lady Rose’s perfidy. Marriage suddenly loomed ominously close. In a moment of desperation, he fabricated a plan and announced, “I shall have to delay my call for the present.
I have engaged a party of friends to go down to Hawks’s Lair for several weeks.”

“During the height of the Season?” The retiring Miss Millet spoke for the first time since he’d entered the room. Her tone appeared skeptical.

The earl’s mind was racing. He would have to invite a party of gentlemen to his home on a moment’s notice. Whom could he find to take and how would he entertain them without the possibility of hunting or fishing during the bitterly cold spring? He realized his grandmother was looking at him, her expression as doubtful as her companion’s.

“Ladies, my particular friends take little note of the introduction of a bevy of marriage-minded females into Society. I shall call on the marquess when I return next month.”

The dowager was quiet for a moment; then she said, “I want you to be content with your wife, Oliver. I think Lady Cora will suit you very well. She won’t be one of those foolish creatures who babbles of love and demands her husband dance attendance upon her. She knows what is expected.”

Oliver should have been delighted with his grandmother’s pronouncement, but somehow it only made his forthcoming marriage appear even less appealing. Still, to reassure the dowager, he said all that was proper about his proposed
fiancé
e.

Some thirty minutes later, the dowager announced that she intended to return to the country that very day. She would await word from her grandson that all the arrangements for his impending marriage were complete.

Oliver halfheartedly encouraged her to stay, but in truth, his mind was intent on searching through his raffish friends for a small group who would be willing to abandon the amusements of the Season and accompany him to Bath. How could he lure a party of men to the countryside? Females, horses and gaming were the entertainments that interested gentlemen most. Oliver decided that, to be safe, he would offer all three diversions to entice his friends out of Town.

After bidding his grandmother and her companion good-bye, he called for his hat, coat and cane. He had a great many arrangements to make. First he would track down his oldest friend, Sir Ethan Russell. The baronet, hopefully, would help him with the arrangement for his impromptu house party. Sir Ethan was well known to the leading actresses of the Season, preferring ladybirds to widows and straying wives. Perhaps he could introduce Oliver to several who might be induced to come and entertain his friends—for a large fee.