Authors: Caroline Linden
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General
Suddenly he was just tired of it. Margaret knew he was destitute; he’d already admitted it to her himself, even though she’d heard it from a dozen other sources as well. After taking such care to get to know her, what was the point in hiding the truth now? If she couldn’t stomach it, better that he know now. “I’ve sold everything I can,” he said quietly. “The plate, the silver, the furnishings, the paintings, the rare books . . . everything my father collected and Branwell approved of. All that’s left is entailed, but it’s crumbling around my ears. I don’t believe an earldom entitles a man to amass as much debt as he can and ignore the bills. But I’ve reached the end of what I can do. There is nothing left to sell, no more source of funds.” He sighed again. “Damned foolish sheep.”
“And that’s why you need to marry an heiress,” she whispered.
“Clyve persuaded me to that. After spending the last ten years trying to salvage my estate, and being beset by one disaster after another, I personally favored putting the whole property into Holland covers and decamping for the Continent. Perhaps try my luck at tending goats in the Alps.” He gave her a wry look. “The very course you urged upon me when we met.”
She didn’t smile. “You really would have abandoned your estate?”
“It’s damn near a ruin at this point. My father was so obsessed with collecting objets d’art, he let the house fall into extreme disrepair. The roof collapsed on one wing, the gardens were let go when my mother remarried, Branwell tried to cover his losses by letting servants go so there’s been no one to keep out the weather . . . It’s in such a state I cannot even lease it out.” He shrugged. “I would sell it all if I could break the entail. The house in town at least is still whole.”
“What will you do if . . . ?” Her voice trailed off uncomfortably.
“If I cannot seduce a wealthy lady into marriage?”
She bit her lip, looking about to cry. He repented his bitter remark. “There, darling,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms. She laid her cheek on his shoulder, and he took a deep breath. God. If only he’d had as much money as she did, or even just a little bit. Then she wouldn’t doubt him. “I thank God for your brother’s generosity,” he whispered. “I might not have met you but for the gossip about your dowry—along with Clyve’s mother, of course, who put your name on a list of potential brides for him.”
“For Lord Clyveden?” She sounded appalled, and Rhys smiled.
“He gave me the list and persuaded me to meet the ladies on it. Your name was the third of four.”
“Who else was on the list?”
He made a dismissive sound. “Mere girls. One meek and quiet, one amiable and ambitious.”
“That’s only two.”
“I never even met the fourth, Maggie,” he breathed against her temple. “Once I met you, and you gave me such a magnificent set-down, I knew you were the only woman for me.”
He could feel her cheek swell with a little smile, but then she stepped back and regarded him soberly. “But if I didn’t have a dowry, you wouldn’t be here with me in this garden, would you?” In the moonlight she was beautiful, her eyes dark and serious, her skin glowing like pearl.
“I think I would be,” he said. “If you were still that spinster in Holborn without a pound to your name, and I had met you some other way, I would still be here, hoping to kiss you again.”
“If I were still a spinster in Holborn,” she said slowly, “everyone would mock you for even looking twice at me.”
“My darling Maggie,” he said with a faint smile, “they’ve already turned their backs on me. I would live my life in ruin and disgrace for the chance to look twice at you, every day for the rest of eternity.”
Her breathing stopped. “Why?” she asked, almost fearfully.
If he hadn’t already declared himself with his last statement, there was no reason not to come straight out and say it. He met her eyes and said simply, “Because I’m falling in love with you.”
R
hys went home not knowing if he had lost his chance with Margaret. Part of him feared very much he had; her reaction to his declaration of love had been underwhelming. She turned away as if flustered or unsettled, and only nodded when he offered to take her back to her party. They had parted with subdued, empty niceties, and Rhys left with no idea if his feelings upset her or pleased her.
Until Branwell’s untimely arrival, he’d thought very differently. She wanted to know his intentions, and if he were courting her. She asked him to walk out, and told him to kiss her—it was important to her, knowing if they suited each other physically. And by God, did she suit him. She suited him so well, he was awake until the small hours of the morning, reliving the feel of her mouth on his, her body pressed against his, her rapid breath against his cheek as he kissed every inch of her lovely throat.
But now his secrets were out. Although everyone in London knew he was destitute, he hadn’t exactly flaunted the depth of his fall. He was righteously proud he had stopped the mindless borrowing against his lands begun by his father and continued with abandon under Branwell’s hand despite his protests, but that pride had a sour taste. Perhaps he should have kept up the pretense a little longer, at least until he secured a wealthy bride, when he could have discreetly turned his fortunes around. Not that he would have lied to Margaret, precisely, but he wouldn’t have had to tell her until he was more certain of her feelings for him.
He was ruminating over it when Clyve arrived, bearing a leg of ham and the morning papers. “You need to marry the girl quickly, so you can provide a decent breakfast for your friends,” he told Rhys, sending the ham off with Bunter, the one remaining servant, for carving.
“I’ve no idea if she’ll marry me at all. Cousin Branwell turned up in the garden last night at a very inopportune moment.”
Clyve groaned. “That idiot! But surely all isn’t lost—you said she’s a sensible woman. Anyone with sense can see Branwell’s a narrow-minded fool.”
“She is,” said Rhys dourly. “No doubt she’ll make the sensible decision and refuse me.”
His friend waved one hand. “What sort of inopportune moment?”
“
Very
inopportune.”
“Excellent,” cried Clyve with a leer. “Good work, Dowling. To your upcoming marriage.” He lifted his cup of coffee in salute.
“No, no.” Rhys glared at him. “Of course I didn’t make love to her in the gardens at Vauxhall. Be sensible, Clyve.”
“If Branwell starts telling everyone you did, it’s as good as done.” Clyve shrugged, unconcerned.
“The old fool better keep his mouth closed,” said Rhys sharply. “If he doesn’t, I’ll close it for him.”
The viscount looked mildly surprised. “Isn’t that what you want? If Branwell tells people you’ve had her, her brother will have little choice but to give his consent.”
He didn’t answer. Clyve only saw the goal and a means to achieve it. Rhys, though, hated the thought of Margaret being forced to marry him. Not only would it counter all the efforts he’d made to prove his interest in her, not her dowry, it would infuriate her, even if she didn’t believe him guilty of engineering that scene in Vauxhall. Was it too much to ask of fate that this one point of desire in his life, this small question of personal happiness, not go spectacularly wrong?
“Come now,” Clyve relented when he was silent. “It ain’t so bad as that! I know you liked her best, but buck up, man—there are other heiresses in London. If Durham spurns your offer, take another turn at the Cranmore girl. I hear she refused Simington the other day because he was a mere baron.”
“Who?” Rhys frowned and waved Clyve’s answer aside. “No.”
His friend sat back and looked at him in surprise. “You’re smitten,” he declared, half amused, half disgusted. “By the saints, how did you let that happen?”
Rhys didn’t bother replying. Bunter brought in the ham, neatly sliced, and set it on the table, along with a fresh pot of coffee, before disappearing out the door again.
Clyve speared a slice of ham from the platter and rolled it up. “What you need to do, then, is secure the lady’s affections.” He took a bite of his ham and chewed, looking thoughtful. “I gather that’s the only obstacle.”
“Yes, that was my plan,” he said dryly.
“She went off into the shrubbery with you, so she’s not indifferent.”
“No.” Not at all, from the way she kissed him back. He inhaled deeply at the memory. Another few kisses like that. . .
“You need to have her alone, then,” Clyve went on. “Exert some persuasion.”
Another few kisses like that . . . would tell him what he needed to know. If she didn’t care for him, for whatever reason, he would know to move on. If she did, though . . . Margaret was no meek, limp creature. He remembered the way she had put him in his place in Chelsea, and a smile touched his lips for the first time all day. “Clyve, I do believe you’re right.”
“Of course I am.” Clyve folded the rest of his ham into his mouth and wiped his hands on the tablecloth.
The knocker on the front door sounded, echoing through the hall. Rhys heard Bunter rush to answer it, and a moment later Freddie Eccleston appeared in the doorway, a pair of dogs at his heels. “Morning, Dowling,” he said cheerfully. “Clyveden.”
Brilliant. Eccleston had taken to stopping by whenever he had a message regarding Margaret. Rhys had never asked him to do it; he suspected Miss Stacpoole told him to all on her own. Like Clyve, she seemed to think Rhys needed every aid in winning Margaret’s heart. Rhys was growing exceptionally fond of Miss Stacpoole. “Come in. Have some breakfast.” He waved one hand at the table, even though it only held the ham and coffee.
Eccleston took a seat, his dogs creeping under the chair at his command. “I have information for you,” he said directly, taking a slice of ham and tearing it into shreds. “You’re to attend the masque at Carlisle House three evenings hence.” The two dogs’ noses emerged from under his chair, and Eccleston fed a piece of ham to each twitching snout. “You must wear dark colors and a domino, and I was assured it would not go amiss if you were to wear a hat with a large, dashing plume in it as well.”
Clyve gave a bark of laughter. Rhys grinned, but in growing jubilation instead of amusement. “What else does Miss Stacpoole recommend?”
“You should look for a lady wearing white and black, with a garland of flowers on her head.” Eccleston paused. “I endured quite a description of how striking it will be, so take careful notice, Dowling.”
“Good God,” drawled Clyve, lounging in his chair with an air of wicked delight. “I haven’t been to a masque in some time. I might have such a hat at home . . .”
“Excellent; I’d be delighted to borrow it. Bunter will fetch it at once,” Rhys told him. “What time should I seek the lady in white and black?”
“Not before ten o’clock.” Eccleston fed more scraps of ham to the patient dogs before pinning a serious look on Rhys. “I also am to advise you that the Duke of Durham does not care for masquerades, and will not be in attendance, fortunately for you.”
“Bugger him,” scoffed Clyve, but Rhys waved him into silence.
“He disapproves?”
“He was vehemently displeased by your wandering about Vauxhall the other night.” Done distributing the ham, Eccleston put his hand under the chair, where it was lovingly washed by his hounds. “He gave me quite a glare when Miss de Lacey returned to the supper box looking pale and flustered, even though she told him she was quite well and he needn’t worry. Sent us right out, with the companion, too. Clarissa said they argued when they reached home, but she regards Miss de Lacey as a sort of queenly tiger, and quite capable of holding her own.” Rhys grinned at the description. “Still, His Grace won’t be pleased to see you, no matter what his sister says. Not much gentlemanly decorum in that one.”
“Not a gentleman at all,” sniffed Clyve.
“I think he’d cut out your liver with his own knife, if you crossed him,” added Eccleston.
“He promised her she would have her choice,” Rhys said, beginning to hum with elated anticipation. “And it appears she is on the brink of making it.”
I
f Margaret had any illusions about her brother’s attention or temper altering under the weight of his ducal crown, she was swiftly disabused.
She took her time going back into the box in Vauxhall, still trying to sort out her feelings over what had happened on her walk with Lord Dowling. First, and most delightfully, he kissed her—and so spectacularly well, her knees still felt a bit weak. She could see fewer and fewer reasons not to encourage his suit: He was charming, attentive, thoughtful, decent, and bloody beautiful, as Clarissa so aptly put it. He held her as if he could hardly restrain his baser urges, and his kiss . . . She touched unsteady fingers to her lips, remembering. Would he really have kissed her that way when she was still a spinster from Holborn? Would he have said to her then, as he did tonight, that he was losing his heart to her? Margaret was becoming more and more certain he might have. And the less she believed him to be just another bankrupt in search of a rich wife, the more she admitted she might be falling in love, too.
Fortunately she sent him off before walking into what turned out to be a bitter quarrel. Francis, who had hitherto shown a commendable lack of interest in her suitors, was waiting when she returned. She knew it would be bad when she found him alone in the supper box. Instinctively she halted in the doorway.
“Where were you?” he asked through thin lips, his arms folded over his chest.
“Walking. Where were you?” She looked around the box. “Where have Clarissa and Mr. Eccleston gone? And Miss Cuthbert?”
“Eccleston took Miss Stacpoole home, with Miss Cuthbert chaperoning. Where were you?” he repeated.
“I went for a stroll with Lord Dowling.” There was no reason to lie, as everyone had seen them leave.
“Dowling,” he said harshly. “Dowling, the Welsh earl who hasn’t a shilling to his name?”
“Dowling, the charming gentleman who’s become my friend?” She widened her eyes. “Yes, that’s the one.”
“The one who’s after your dowry, you mean.”
“Pish.” Margaret laughed lightly, sensing his temper was truly engaged and trying to divert it. “That bloody dowry. You really ought to take it back, Francis.”
“That’s what he wants, Meg,” her brother warned, ignoring her attempts. “Don’t allow yourself to be seduced by a wastrel.”
“How do you know he’s a wastrel?” she demanded, irked. “How do you know he’s any different from Lord Sandridge or Viscount Lavoy?”
He glowered at her. “I’ve heard tales.”
“Tales of what? Dead sheep?” She shook her head. “How is his misfortune any different than Mr. Twiston’s?” The Twistons had been their neighbors in Holborn. Francis had been compassionate and generous in helping them when they went bankrupt after Mr. Twiston’s shop and everything in it burned to the ground. Surely he must remember that part of himself.
“Tales of willful negligence of his estates. Tales of his flagrant disregard for his tenants and dependents. Tales of shocking financial neglect.”
“Lord Branwell told you that, didn’t he?” She pursed her lips. “Did he mention he was Lord Dowling’s guardian after the death of his father, and many of the debts and bad investments were made on his orders?”
His face darkened, and he didn’t argue. Margaret savored the hit. “I don’t like him.”
“Like him?” she exclaimed in astonishment. “You’ve never met him!”
“I know he’s in desperate want of funds, and I know he led you off into the dark Grove alone. I shall speak to Miss Cuthbert about that.”
“Really, Francis,” she snapped without thinking. “I’m a woman of thirty, not some silly girl of sixteen. I invited him to walk with me, and Miss Cuthbert had nothing to do with it.” He stared at her, his eyes glittering in the glow of the oil lamps. “I was perfectly fine,” she added. “He did nothing I didn’t wish him to do.”
“I see.” He jerked his head. “We’re going home.”
“Very well.”
“And you’re not to see him again.”
Margaret flushed with outrage and fury from head to toe. “Not see him again?” she repeated. “How
dare
you. You promised me I would have my choice of suitors.”
“Subject to my approval,” he growled.
“You never said that! My choice, you declared,” she said savagely. “
Mine
. Dowling is no more a wastrel than you are, Francis. Have the decency to meet the man before you judge him so harshly.”
“I’ll judge him as I wish.” He tossed her cloak at her. “Come.”
“Are you a man of your word or not?” She clutched the cloak but made no effort to put it on.
“I gave my word,” he said. “To our father. I promised I’d protect you, and I intend to.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Then don’t be an idiot about it.” She swirled the cloak about her shoulders and left, ignoring him as he strode next to her to the dock, boarded the wherry, and crossed the river. Not a word was spoken in the carriage on the way back to Berkley Square, and he went straight to his study while she stormed upstairs.
But once there her heart began to tighten with anxiety instead of anger. If Francis forbade her to see Dowling again, what would she do? None of her other suitors engaged her interest half as much as he did. Lord Weston was a decent fellow, and Lord Camersley was pleasant enough and very handsome, but none of them had Lord Dowling’s blend of irreverent humor and kindness and wicked smiles. None of the others made her think they wanted her, naked in their arms at night, as Lord Dowling did. Margaret was not an innocent girl to be shocked by such talk. She had seen love and passion, good marriages and bad, and she knew what she wanted for herself.
The next morning she was on the brink of sending Clarissa a note when the lady herself appeared, wide-eyed and burning with curiosity.
“Are you well?” she demanded even before her bonnet was off. “Oh, Margaret, I was so worried last night—Freddie was so grim when His Grace sent us home, and Miss Cuthbert was almost in tears!”
“Come into my sitting room,” Margaret said, mindful of the servants. “Miss Cuthbert should be waiting.” She led the way to the stairs to her suite of rooms, and firmly closed the door. “I need your help,” she told her two potential accomplices.
Miss Cuthbert paled. She already looked wretched, and had been on the verge of tears all morning. “Miss de Lacey, I am mortified at what my actions have exposed you to.”
“What happened last night?” cried Clarissa. “Did Dowling—?”
“No.” Margaret pulled a chair closer and lowered her voice. “Lord Dowling did nothing wrong. In fact, he did everything right. I—I believe I am in great danger of being hopelessly in love with him.”
“Oh, Miss de Lacey,” began Miss Cuthbert in a wobbly voice.
“Brilliant,” exclaimed Clarissa, beaming. “I knew it! He could not be so charming and so bloody beautiful and not win your heart! Freddie will be so pleased to hear it, he regards Dowling as a great friend—we shall be like sisters!”
Margaret held up her hand, not smiling. “It isn’t as simple as that. If you haven’t already heard, you soon will. Lord Branwell, who was Dowling’s guardian when his father died, is telling terrible stories impugning Dowling’s decency and intelligence. He told my brother last evening Dowling is only after my fortune, and now Durham says he forbids me to see Dowling again.”
Clarissa’s mouth opened, and closed. “Oh dear,” she whispered.
“But you wish to see the gentleman again.” Miss Cuthbert sounded wistful. “You favor him.”
Margaret gave a tiny nod. “I do.” She had been awake all night, sorting through her feelings and the facts of her situation. “Yes, I favor him. Greatly.” Clarissa wiggled in her chair, beaming again. “Miss Cuthbert, I know you advised me he is unsuitable—”
“Nonsense,” said her companion quietly. “I was hasty. He’s not as eligible as some, it is true . . . But he is an earl of good character. I have never heard him called rude or debauched. Most of his troubles stem from his dire financial circumstances, which he hasn’t lied about or hidden, as some of our class do. I—I believe you might do far worse, Miss de Lacey.”
“She could hardly do better,” put in Clarissa as Margaret stared at her companion in surprise. “Dowling has a lovely estate. His father was a bit of an eccentric, always collecting books and paintings, his mother took herself off as soon as he was cold in his grave, and then Dowling was left to the idiotic care of that Branwell, who is, you must admit, one of the silliest and stupidest of men.”
“He is,” Miss Cuthbert confirmed.
“My mother says it’s a miracle Dowling is half as decent as he is. She’s had her ear out for anything about him, now he and Freddie are inseparable. That Viscount Clyveden is a scoundrel, but even he is kind to his mother, which says so much about a man, I think.”
“It does,” Miss Cuthbert agreed. “And Dowling has been so gentlemanly toward Miss de Lacey.”
Clarissa nodded. “No man could be better! Margaret, you are quite right to favor him, and I will do everything in my power to help you if you wish to run away with him.”
“As will I,” declared Miss Cuthbert, bright spots of color in her cheeks.
“Excellent.” Margaret clasped her hands together in relief. “I knew I could depend on you both, although I don’t wish to plan an elopement just yet. I merely want to see Lord Dowling again, alone if possible, to make everything clear between us. And it would be best if I can manage it without my brother knowing.”
Miss Cuthbert and Clarissa proved themselves born conspirators. It took the three of them half an hour to settle on a suitable façade: a masquerade ball at Carlisle House in a few days’ time, with notice of her costume sent ahead to Dowling so he might find her; and an alternative plan, should Francis grow suspicious and decide to accompany her to the masquerade despite his dislike of them. Clarissa would have Mr. Eccleston hire a carriage to wait outside, so Margaret and Dowling could slip away if desired. Clarissa eagerly volunteered to tell any necessary lies to cover Margaret’s disappearance.
“Oh, what a caper!” She giggled. “All in the pursuit of true love. I vow, Freddie will be so charmed when he hears of it.”
“As long as he understands, and conveys to Lord Dowling, the importance of secrecy,” Miss Cuthbert told her sternly. “You mustn’t say a word to
anyone
else, Miss Stacpoole.”
Clarissa made a face. “Of course I wouldn’t! And neither will Freddie. But oh—Margaret, we must see to your dress! It must be striking, and you must look beautiful!”
“Yes.” Margaret smiled, her heart beginning to leap. She would see him again. She felt no compunction flouting Francis’s command that she not see Dowling. Francis had given her his word, and then broken it the moment he didn’t like her decision. She felt fully absolved of any guilt and was even sure her father would have agreed with her. Francis’s head had gotten too big since his inheritance.
But she had to see Dowling again. Her heart had already decided he was the one, and her body still hummed from his embrace. She needed just one more conversation to make sure there were no more obstacles, but deep inside she suspected he was the man for her.
T
he plan succeeded marvelously. Miss Cuthbert had a hidden genius for subterfuge, even after enduring a blistering lecture from Francis for allowing Margaret out of her sight at Vauxhall. She stoically listened, made her profuse apologies, and returned to Margaret’s suite to continue plotting.
For her costume Margaret took a simple white polonaise gown and stitched glossy black ribbons to it. Paired with a flounced petticoat, it was unbearably elegant. She liked the stark simplicity, although Clarissa fretted over it and finally persuaded her to add a garland of pink roses in her hair.
When the night arrived, she was waiting in the hall for the carriage to come around when her brother finally appeared. They hadn’t met since that stone-silent ride home from Vauxhall, and for a moment it seemed as though time had paused since then as they regarded each other.
“You look striking,” Francis said at last. He was haggard in the lamp light. “A masquerade?”
“Yes. One of Mrs. Cornelys’s entertainments at Carlisle House.”
He grunted. “Foolishness.”
“Entertainment,” she countered calmly, raising her jeweled half mask. “For pleasure.”
Francis’s gaze moved past her. “With decorum, of course.” From the corner of her eye Margaret saw Miss Cuthbert sink into a curtsey, murmuring agreement. What a sly minx Miss Cuthbert was.
The footman opened the door as the coach pulled up to the steps. “Good night, Francis,” Margaret said, moving toward the door without another glance at her brother.
“Enjoy yourself,” he said gruffly.
She planned to. Her brother’s quiet demeanor gave her a small pang; perhaps she should have stayed to see if he wished to patch up things between them. But he’d had three days to do so, and he hadn’t made an effort to see her in that time, even though she’d been about the house every day. Her pride was quite as strong as his, and she settled into the coach seat without much regret.