Kathryn Caskie (9 page)

Magnus exhaled a long breath. After several days and nights immersed in sorting out his late brother’s muddled affairs, he was at last alone with Eliza, a moment he’d longed for since he first accepted Lady Hogart’s invitation.

As gazed down at Eliza, and couldn’t help but notice, with some amusement, that her eyes and nose were almost as red as the crimson panels billowing overhead. He had to own, he was a bit relieved by her newly blotched appearance. Perhaps now he could focus on what he must do, instead of being distracted by her beauty.

But he doubted it. Eliza’s allure went far beyond her lovely face. Beyond her all too clever mind. Beyond the gentle curves he so longed to feel pressed beneath him.

Could it be that he simply yearned to taste the forbidden fruit? That he wanted her because he could not have her? She had no dowry to recommend her; no standing in Society, as his uncle oft reminded him. No riches to save Somerton. Why did he want her so badly?

Eliza was fast becoming a weakness for him, and if he wasn’t careful, she could become his addiction. For even now he craved her, as surely as his brother had craved drink and cards.

But he would not allow his desires to overtake his life as his brother had. He was stronger than that. Had to be.

He would steel his impulses and do what he must to save Somerton. But then, Eliza looked up and his heart thudded in his chest.

This wasn’t going to be easy. Taking a deep breath, Magnus readied himself for the battle about to wage within.

“Would ye like to sit down?” he asked her.

“Thank you, but no,” Eliza replied, appearing remarkably unscathed by the whole feather ordeal. “I shall be fine as long as there are no more peacock feathers—or
aunts
about.” Wide-eyed, she glanced around the room, as if on the lookout for the elderly marauders.

“And thank ye, Miss Merriweather,” Magnus said, “for rescuing me.”

“Rescuing you? From the Peacocks?” Eliza exhaled a skeptical laugh. “You did not appear to be in want of a rescue—except from Mrs. Peacock, perhaps.”

"Well, yer aunt handled that problem quite efficiently, in her own inimitable style.”

“That she did.” Eliza raised her hand to cover a mischievous grin. But Eliza said not another word. She simply tilted her head upward and stared at him as if waiting.

Magnus laid his arm across the mantel and set his boot atop the fireplace fender. “Ye would like an explanation.”

“An explanation, my lord?” She blinked her eyes innocently. “Just because I have learned that you are, in fact,
betrothed,
while you had previously contracted with me to help find you a rich bride—is hardly reason enough to think I might require an explanation. Is it?”

Magnus knew she deserved the truth—that in the end, he’d likely have no choice other than to marry Miss Peacock. But in his heart, admitting this was akin to resigning himself to that inevitability. And he could not do that, not when a mist of a chance to solve his financial woes still rode the waves. Nay, he had to believe his world would right itself given enough time.

He opened his mouth to give Eliza her reply, hoping, in some burst of genius, he would come upon the right words. But just then, a butler entered the drawing room and announced that supper was served.

Relief flooded his mind. “Miss Merriweather, ye shall have your explanation. Of that ye can be sure. Soon.”

Twisting her lips a bit, Eliza smirked at his delay.

“Shall we?” Magnus offered his arm to Eliza.

Hesitantly, Eliza slid her arm around his.

Magnus drew her body close as he guided her into the dining room. Through the wool sleeve of his coat he could feel the warmth and softness of her breast, pressing against his upper arm. He swallowed deeply, aware of his snug-fitting breeches, thankful that he would soon be sitting down.

Eliza found supper a less than enjoyable experience. While she had the good fortune to be seated at Lord Somerton’s right, Caroline Peacock was placed to his left. Chatting incessantly, Miss Peacock did her utmost to monopolize Magnus’s attention, much to Aunt Letitia’s chagrin, judging by the pinched expression on her round face.

This left Eliza at the conversational mercy of their host who sat to her right.

After two hours of dreary conversation while supping
á la Française,
Lord Hogart returned, most inadvisably, to his cups and the news that had dominated the front page of every newspaper for two weeks—the raging storms at sea.

“F-four hundred men have drowned,” he slurred in an overloud tone, drawing the attention of everyone at the long, narrow dining table. After several glasses of wine, his bulbous nose had gone red, and beads of sweat greased his thinning hairline. “And the cargo,” he added. “Well, I dare not even imagine the losses.”

This turn of conversation put a number of the guests ill at ease. One gentleman quietly excused himself from the table, while others shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. To Eliza’s surprise, Magnus was included in their number.

She saw him exchange a meaningful glance with his uncle, before stabbing a bit of fish flesh with his knife, only to stare down at it for several empty moments. As Hogart droned on, Magnus squeezed the blade’s mother-of-pearl handle until the beds of his nails went as white as the linen beneath his plate.

“Thankfully, none of the western shipping lanes have been affected by the tempest,” their host added.

This bit of news, though meaningless to Eliza, seemed to assuage Magnus, who relaxed his grip on his knife.

Eliza studied the Scotsman from the corner of her eye. Why had he appeared so concerned about the storms? He could not be an investor. He had no money. He’d admitted as much to her.

Or was this, too, another of his fabrications? Eliza pondered this as she glanced up at their hostess.

Lady Hogart was not blind to her guests’ discomfort, as her husband seemed to be. She clapped her hands together, breaking the tension in the room. “My husband acquired a stunning chestnut at Tattersall’s only last week,” she began.

Bleary-eyed, Lord Hogart glared at his wife and with a loose wave of his hand, dismissed her. “Do not try to quiet me, Madam. Besides, you know nothing of horseflesh. Best keep your mouth closed rather than embarrass yourself before our guests.”

Lady Hogart raised her napkin to her lips as tears began to catch in her lashes. Rather than risk another rebuke, she uttered not another word.

Eliza’s heart went out to her. Amid the lavish meal and elegant home, Lady Hogart was an unhappy woman, trapped in a marriage to an ogre of the first order. She diverted her gaze from Lady Hogart, as she hoped others would do, to afford their hostess some dignity. As she did so, Grace’s astonished gaze caught her own.

Eliza lifted a knowing brow.
This is what marriage does to a woman,
she wanted to say.

Lord Hogart lifted his crystal goblet and gulped the wine from it. “What right have the Americans to British merchant ships? They are running amok, I tell you,” he growled. “We should deal with them swiftly and firmly. ‘Tis our duty and our right, just as ‘tis a husband’s duty to control his wife.”

The tears welling inside Lady Hogart’s lashes spilled over and trickled down her cheeks.

Eliza seized her fork, her knuckles paling with her grip. She drew in a breath, preparing to speak her mind, when Lord Somerton brushed her hand lightly, causing her to pause and glance up at him.

“I would agree with ye, Hogart,” he said. “Our relationship with America should be like a marriage.”

Eliza caught her breath. She turned and stared at Magnus. Surely he did not agree with their beast of a host!

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Aunt Viola shaking her head and wiggling five fingers just above the lip of the table.
Rule Five. Pretend inferiority.

Hogart lifted his quizzing glass to his eye and peered at Magnus. “Glad to hear you agree, Somerton.”

Magnus raised his palm. “Allow me to finish, if ye will.”

This, Eliza decided, she should like to hear. Folding her hands in her lap, Eliza leaned back in her chair and allowed Magnus an unhindered view of Lord Hogart.

“Our relationship with America should be like a marriage—” he turned his eyes and caught Eliza’s gaze, stunning her with his attention. “A partnership, in which both grow as a result of merging their strengths and resources.”

Eliza looked down at her napkin. A relieved, and admittedly surprised, smile tugged at her lips.

She glanced up at Magnus again and studied his profile. Perhaps there was more to this Lord Somerton than she gave him credit for. Perhaps much more.

When supper concluded, the ladies took their leave, allowing the gentlemen their brandy and imported cheroots in the privacy of the dining room.

Eliza, who had no desire to be chastised for allowing Miss Peacock to wholly monopolize Magnus’s attentions at the table, occupied herself by chatting with another young lady who was also
enjoying
her first season. Eventually though, she succumbed to the inevitable and joined her aunts and sister near the hearth and awaited her rebuke.

"I cannot do it, Auntie,” Grace was quietly telling Aunt Letitia. “The man is marginally attractive, but he has the intelligence of…
a slimy garden slug.
I cannot pretend inferiority any longer.”

“A garden slug, say you? Hmm,” Aunt Letitia replied distractedly. She flipped her fan open and waved it before her face, casting a disappointed eye on Eliza all the while. “Then, perhaps he is not the match for you, Grade.”

“I daresay he is not,” Grace whispered, “but I fear he may feel otherwise.”

Aunt Viola’s eyes grew bright. “Do you anticipate an offer?”

“I do not know.” Grace’s face grew pale. “Perhaps.”

Eliza looked at her sister. “Surely not after one evening.”

Grace wrung her hands. “I believe Rule Five might have worked too well. Since we are new to London, I had not been warned of his dull character. My efforts likely afforded him more female attention than he has received in years.”

Eliza bit her lips, preventing a guffaw.

The rumble of sliding pocket doors drew Eliza’s attention. At last, the men had finished their libations and tobacco and were now rejoining the women.

“There’s Somerton, gel. Go get him!” Aunt Letitia’s hand slammed into Eliza’s back and shoved her toward the center of the room. “Hurry now.”

Eliza took a step forward, more determined now than ever to have her explanation of Magnus’s supposed engagement.

But the two Peacocks, unnaturally fleet of foot, surged forward and met Lord Somerton and Mr. Pender as they emerged and together the four of them walked to the other side of the room.
Blast!
Caroline had usurped her again.

Mr. Dabney, a son of a baronet and therefore a commoner by the high ton’s standards, was the last guest through the doorway. His eyes scanned the room, brightening when he noticed Grace.

Grace’s eyes grew round. “Lud! Here comes Mr. Dabney now. Please excuse me.” With her words still loose in the air, Grace made a hasty retreat for the ladies’ withdrawing room.

Eliza turned away and reluctantly rejoined her aunts, but it was no use. She could not stop her gaze from drifting back to Magnus. He was supposed to be posing as her suitor, not cavorting with that heifer, Miss Peacock. She had to speak with him
now.
Had to know if he was truly engaged to her.

Then, as if summoned by her wishes, Magnus lifted his eyes and found hers. One corner of his mouth pulled into a slight smile and he playfully fluttered his eyebrows at her.

A wash of heat suffused her cheeks, and she turned quickly away, trying again to follow her aunts’ conversation. How she abhorred Society’s ridiculous rules. Were she a man, she could just stride across the drawing and demand an interview. But a lady could not. A lady must be patient.

A moment later, Eliza found the courage to glance in Lord Somerton’s direction to monitor his conversation. But as she turned her head, she nearly jumped from her slippers. Magnus had left the Peacocks with his uncle and was now standing directly at her side.

“Miss Merriweather,” he said, with a polite nod.

With gleeful grins, Aunt Letitia and Aunt Viola silently receded into the next circle of conversation tactfully leaving Eliza alone with the earl.

“I do beg yer pardon. I know ye wish to continue our conversation, but it took a little longer than I’d hoped to extract myself from Miss Peacock’s company.”

“Y-you should have signaled me,” Eliza said, vaguely alarmed at the shrillness of her own voice. “I would have come to your rescue.”

Magnus lifted a speculative brow. “Ye do not find Miss Peacock agreeable?”

“How could I make such a judgment? I barely know her.”

Eliza glanced across the room to where Caroline Peacock was now happily conversing with Mr. Dabney. Surprisingly, she did not appear at all bored, as Grace claimed to have been. In fact, Caroline actually seemed to be enjoying their chat. But then, Eliza chuckled to herself, cows were not known for their intelligence, were they?

Turning back to Magnus, Eliza tilted her head and studied him for a moment. “But
you
find her agreeable, my lord.”

“She seems amiable enough. Her manners are superb. Very handsome too, I must admit,” he said thoughtfully. “But Miss Peacock was my father’s choice of bride for
my brother,
the late Lord Somerton.”

Eliza lifted her brows. “For your
brother?
So you were never … and you let me think … well, fancy that.” An odd feeling of relief washed over her. “Though, I daresay, the Peacocks seem to be under the impression that Caroline is to marry
you.”

“I am well aware of their wishes. Caroline was to be a countess when she married James. Now that he is gone and the title has passed to me—”

“She has set her cap for you.”

“Aye. Or rather, her parents have.” Magnus gestured toward Pender, who stood across the room staring back at them with a critical eye. “And, my uncle is doing all he can to convince me of her suitability, given my situation, ye know.”