To Lure a Proper Lady (5 page)

“My sisters do not stand to profit. Nor do I. If anything, we gain by our marriage.” She allowed herself a tight smile. “And none of us has taken that drastic step as yet.”

“Gain by your marriage?” He stiffened, his nostrils flaring like a hunting dog scenting danger. “What do you gain?”

“Funds of our own so we do not have to depend on our husbands for pin money.” She would not name Snowley, even though both of them knew Snowley comprised her intended future. “In my particular case, an unentailed property, should married life not suit me.”

Dysart emitted a feral sound, as if the tiger stirred. “So much a suitor may gain if he secures your hand.”

She knew what he meant. Even if Papa set aside both lands and money in her name, an unscrupulous man could take all that under his control. Hence the reason she'd been reluctant to commit to wedding anybody so far, distasteful cousins aside.

“You see,” she said carefully, “why I have every intention of keeping my papa alive—over and above any sense of filial attachment.”

The rigid lines about his mouth eased. “I already said the likelihood of you being behind this was minimal. However, you do your cousin's case no favors.”

She knew. Lord, she knew, but she didn't wish to discuss the matter yet again. If Snowley was doing something to Papa to push her toward the altar, the fastest way to end it would be to accept his suit. But she couldn't bring herself to face that prospect, any more than she could summon an adequate reply to Dysart.

So she changed the subject. “You wished to interview Papa, did you not?”

“In a moment. I had something to ask you, as well.”

In the middle of reaching for the door handle, she stopped. “Oh?”

“The guest list for the party tomorrow. Who's invited?”

She studied him from the corner of her eye. His blasted cravat had worked itself even looser, and its dangling ends hung down his chest, tempting her to adjust them. But his query about the guest list gave her pause. It wasn't as if he traveled the same social circles as she did. He wouldn't actually be acquainted with any of her guests.

Would he?

Still, she rattled off as many names as she could recall.

“Is that all of them?” he asked when she'd finished.

“Yes, I believe so. Although Caro may have added a few. Why?”

“I just want to know what to expect. I don't like surprises. And now, the duke.”

“Wait, you can't go in there like that.” Even if Papa was probably abed. She took a step, hands outstretched. “Your cravat.”

He glanced down. “Blood—Blasted thing.”

She stood close to him now—too close for society's notions of respectability, especially given their respective status; close enough that she could catch his scent. She'd expected something coarse, but it was nothing of the sort. It filled her lungs with its freshness, its cleanness, with an utterly captivating hint of earthiness. Her fingers shook as she took up the trailing linen ends.

His hands clamped down over hers, engulfing them with warmth. The roughened calluses on his palms pressed into the soft skin over the backs of her hands. She suddenly understood the dictate that young ladies wear gloves. If such innocent contact with a male caused her nerves to tingle along all points of contact, imagine the effect of something more intimate. Something more scandalous.

You've encountered other men before. None of them ever did this to you.
No, not even the ones who had tried to kiss her.

“Are you certain you know what you're doing?” His question emerged ragged and raspy. At the same time, he may as well have been addressing her lips directly.

A sense of awareness washed through her. They were alone here in this upstairs corridor. Alone and nearly embracing. All he had to do was slide his hands up her arms to her shoulders. Or better yet, down to her hips, where he could pull her against his body and…

When are you going to live up to the family name?

She pushed that inconvenient thought aside. The last thing she needed was an emotional entanglement with someone so completely fascinating yet so wholly inappropriate.

“Perhaps…” Her reply came out raw. “Perhaps Papa would lend you his valet. He doesn't get out of bed often enough to require assistance on a regular basis.”

Dysart dropped his hands and stepped out of her reach. “That's likely for the best.”

“Yes, quite.”

A feeling of officiousness took over every last vestige of warmth he'd elicited. She snapped to attention and with crisp efficiency opened the door to Papa's quarters before marching across the sitting room. Dysart's footsteps thudded softly behind her. A quick knock and she entered the bedchamber.

At her appearance, Papa tugged at the sleeves of his brocade banyan. He still occupied the same upholstered chair as when she'd left him earlier. “My dear, I thought we'd established I'm in as fine a fettle as possible under the circumstances. Surely you've no reason to come back and check up on me.”

“I've brought someone to meet you, Papa.” She waved Dysart into the bedchamber and cleared her throat. Efficiency. That would be her byword from now on. “Your grace, I present to you one Dysart. Dysart, the Duke of Sherrington.”

Papa sat up straighter, his narrow shoulders square. Despite his failing health, he radiated an air of nobility that seemed to transform his wingchair into a throne. He studied the newcomer, and something gleamed in his eye.

“Dysart, you say?” He rubbed his chin. “Something wrong there.”

“Begging your pardon, your grace, but there's nothing wrong.” Dysart's tone was all deference, but Lizzie held no doubt as to which man would control this interview. “I'd like a word, if you wouldn't mind. A private word.”

Papa waved a hand in Lizzie's direction. “Leave us.”

Dismissed, just like that. Just like the lowest servant. Her glance bounced from one man to the other; she had no choice but to obey. She swept from the bedchamber, but as she closed the door behind her, an urge rose in her to press an ear to the panel. For there'd been something to that gleam in Papa's eye. Lizzie was more than certain it was recognition.

Dysart let the door to the apothecary swing closed, resisting the urge to help it on its way with a swift kick. A bloody wasted effort talking to the man. At this rate, Dysart could just as easily return to London. At least he'd be among familiar people, and his investigation would bear about as much fruit.

He set off up the dusty path in the general direction of Sherrington Manor. The mail coach wouldn't be through for another two days, so he might as well go back to where he had a room he didn't have to pay for, before writing off this entire excursion as a loss.

The duke himself couldn't provide any useful information. He'd said as much last night.

“Enemies?” Sherrington had waved that concern away like an old cobweb. “Hard to think I've made any when my condition prevents me from leaving my bedchamber. If I've any left over from my younger days, you have to wonder why they'd wait until now to do me in. Not much longer, I'll be gone either way.”

“What about your heir?” At any rate, Dysart could get a feeling for Sherrington's relationship with Snowley.

“He wouldn't harm a fly.” Lady Elizabeth might protest that statement, but perhaps her sister was right, and he had grown out of the habit. “I imagine he's more eager to marry than inherit this old pile. He's never been too terribly keen on responsibility. As for my daughter, she'd better worry about accepting her duty, rather than worrying about me.”

Now, as Dysart made his way back to the manor, that part of the conversation echoed through his mind. To the devil with it. If he left, he'd be leaving Lady Elizabeth to Snowley. Granted, she could say no if she wanted to. As the daughter of a duke, she ought to be accustomed to getting her way.

But would she say no?

Why do you care?

Why, indeed?

Another memory of the previous night flitted through his mind, one where Lady Elizabeth stood close enough that he could breathe in the scent of roses that surrounded her. Close enough that he could see the darkening of her eyes. Close enough that he could have drawn her into an embrace. He could have put his hands on her and felt all the softness of her contours against his body. He could have given in to temptation and stolen a kiss.

Damnation. The woman was certainly to his personal taste, but she was so far above him, that hardly mattered. Even in his younger days, the thought of pursuing someone of her rank would have been laughable.

Another snippet of his interview with Sherrington replayed in his memory.

“I knew your father when we were both much younger,” the duke had commented. “I was but a marquess and he a viscount.”

The man had sounded ready to launch into a bout of serious reminiscence, one Dysart was eager to cut off. He had his own reasons for not wanting to recall those days. “I'm just called
Dysart
now. None of the rest.”

“Dysart, eh?” A spark of interest had appeared in the duke's eye. “Where have I heard that before?”

“It comes from my mother's family.” He told the lie easily enough. A man of Sherrington's rank would never understand the true reason Dysart had taken a new name.

“You must know I recall the old scandal, but indulge me. Tell me in your terms what happened.”

Dysart had suppressed a sigh. From the moment he'd entered this bedchamber, he'd expected something along these lines. And no matter what the man's daughter thought, he stayed or left on the duke's whim. “I've one condition. You will not repeat this story to anyone.”

And so he'd confessed. He'd divulged why a younger son of the
ton
had reason to leave his entire family behind. Why his family had put about that he'd gone into the navy, a convenient lie to mask the truth. Yes, in his youth, he might have courted someone like Lady Elizabeth for a lark. Then. But nothing would ever have come of it.

Even less would come of it now.

Best he remember that. Best he keep his distance and go about his business. He could roust up a few more servants to question. Those he'd managed to collar last night hadn't been any more forthcoming than the duke, not even faced with the promise of coin. Not even when he'd offered them more to keep quiet. Nor had they given off the slightest air of guilt.

No, if Dysart were a hunting hound, he'd have lost the scent long since. If there'd been something rotten to catch a whiff of, that was. Now that he'd met the duke formally, now that he'd witnessed the man's antics, Dysart no longer knew what to think.

Had Puh-
pa's
stomach pains been an act meant to push his reluctant daughters toward the altar? It would seem so, especially when he'd suffered no recent attacks. Convenient timing, that.

And the village apothecary bore the idea out as well. “Oh, yes, sir,” he'd said. “I make all the duke's medicines up exactly to Dr. Fowler's specifications. Nothing much in them but spirits, sugar, and a little coloring to distinguish them.” Cordials masquerading as cures, just as Lady Elizabeth had said. “Even his special stomach remedy is benign. Naught more than brandy mixed with raisin, fennel seed, rhubarb, and licorice root.”

Dysart grimaced at the very idea. Not harmful, possibly, but the taste had to be beyond dreadful. On the other hand, the man made a habit of consuming gruel and offal.

Before long, Dysart's strides carried him to the high hedges that marked the fringes of the duke's lands. An unattended gate gave entrance to a side garden. To the left, the crunch of carriage wheels on pea gravel and the steady plod of hooves announced new arrivals.

An entire parade of them. Good Christ, the house party. And there was another reason to leave.

If the duke had remembered him, he stood a good chance of some of the other guests recalling the old scandal. It was one thing to flit in and out of society behind the protection of a mask. It was quite another to test his luck over an entire sennight.

The mail coach sounded like a better option with every passing moment. He'd turned his back on these people. He didn't need to spend the next several days remembering why.

Still he forced his feet forward, trudging between sculpted flowerbeds toward the front of the house, the better to see what—or rather, whom—he'd be facing.

The front terrace, backed at this angle by that ridiculous fish fountain, came into view. Three young ladies stood at the ready to greet their guests. Lady Caroline was barely recognizable, hidden behind a muslin façade of decorousness. Dysart squinted toward her feet, but her skirts hid them from view. He couldn't help but wonder if those yards of pale fabric concealed riding boots.

Next to Lady Caroline, a smaller figure leaned closer to whisper something in her ear. That could only be the quiet one, Lady Philippa, holding her hands so properly folded. Objectively, he could look at them both and call them beauties—Caroline with her pale golden hair set in curls, her cheeks pinkened by the heat of the day, and Philippa with the sun sparking red flames in her sleek auburn hair. They both sported flawless complexions and light eyes, the same as Lady Elizabeth.

But something about the eldest sister drew his attention. The breeze stirred a few dark tendrils of hair that escaped her coiffure, arousing an odd urge in him to tuck those strands away from her face. That same breath of wind tangled in her skirts, and for an all too brief moment, he caught a hint at the full extent of her curves. Lovely, lush contours that his hands wished to explore in greater detail. The image of those breasts overflowing his hands sent a rush of blood to his groin.

Damn it all. He had no business even thinking such things, let along curling his fingers into fists to prevent him from acting on the impulse.

She is not for one such as you.

Hell, she'd never have noticed him, let alone spoken to him, if not for her business with Bow Street. Best to see that ended, before he did something stupid. He should take her aside and tell her now, before anyone had a chance to spot him.

Before he could act, the first carriage rumbled to a halt, and a gentleman alit. In turn, each of the sisters inclined their heads. Dysart's brows lowered to a scowl.

Snowley. Naturally, he'd be the first on hand.

Dysart's gaze strayed down the line of coaches, one after the next, noting crests. He may as well mind the arrivals on the off chance he recognized someone first. Even if Lady Elizabeth had rattled off the guest list for him last night and none of the names had given him pause, his experience demanded he take heed.

Down the line. Back. Everything in order. As it should be. No, wait. There.

Bloody, bloody hell. Lady Elizabeth had forgotten a name, and the result was a surprise of the worst order. Pendleton. If not the man himself, a member of his family. Potential disaster there. Any one of Marcus Pendleton's relations might recall Dysart from a dozen years ago.

The conveyance rolled closer to the head of the line. Near enough for Dysart to determine a lone occupant. Not a woman, then. No respectable woman would travel without a maid, at the very least. Nor would a woman sport a tall beaver hat.

And if this guest turned out to be Marcus Pendleton himself, so much the worse. Under those circumstances, Dysart's conscience would not allow him to leave. Not without warning Lady Elizabeth.

“I must speak to you about the accommodations. They simply will not do.”

Lizzie swallowed a few choice words. She hadn't managed to advance past the foyer before Lady Whitby accosted her.

“I'm afraid there's very little I can do, my lady. All our bedchambers are accounted for.” She sifted through her memory, trying to recall which quarters she'd assigned the lady and her daughter. “If you lack for anything, I'm certain my staff can assure your comfort, but beyond that…”

Lady Whitby pressed her lips together. “Our rooms are entirely too close to one of the gentlemen's. It is simply not fitting for my Anna.”

Said Anna hovered just behind her mama, practically clinging to the woman's skirts. Pippa had somehow befriended the chit in London, but dash it if Lizzie could work out why. She'd seen bolder expressions on a rabbit.

“I'm quite happy to vouch for any of the gentlemen present. I'm certain none of them would even consider leading your daughter astray.” Not when the girl had arrived with her own personal guard dog in the form of her mother.

“Your pardon.” A tap on Lizzie's shoulder came as welcome relief, at least until she turned and saw who offered the distraction. Snowley had drifted in from the hallway, and now he stood far too close.

“Snowley, have you been introduced to Lady Whitby and her daughter?” As long as Lizzie had to deal with her cousin, she may as well attempt to direct his interest to another young lady. Hopefully one who was eligible. “Mr. Snowley Wilde, my cousin and Papa's eventual heir,” she couldn't resist adding.

“Yes, we've met.” Lady Whitby gave a sniff. “In the corridor outside our lodgings, in fact.”

Apparently being heir to a dukedom was not sufficient to overcome Lady Whitby's sense of propriety.

“I say,” Snowley put in, “was there a particular reason you gave me those rooms? They aren't where I usually stay.”

Lizzie pasted on her freshest hostess smile. She'd known this conversation was coming. She could only wish Snowley had chosen his moment a bit better. “I'm afraid your usual rooms were allotted to Lord Dysart on his arrival yesterday.”

“Lord Dysart?” Lady Whitby's brows disappeared beneath the lace edging of her cap. “I cannot say I've ever heard of that title. Who are his connections?”

Oh dear. The party had barely begun, and already Dysart's presence was raising questions—sight unseen, at that. “They're Scots, I believe, on his father's side. His mother was a dear friend of my mother.”

“Really? And where is Lord Dysart? I should like to meet him.” Meet him and see if he passed muster. Lady Whitby may as well have appended those words to her statement.

And that was a problem. Not only was Lizzie unsure that Dysart would meet this matron's approval, she hadn't seen him all day. Not at breakfast, not in the course of the morning, not even now that the guests were arriving. And good heavens, she needed to find him, as she would have to make any introductions personally.

“I'm sure we can arrange something the moment he appears.”

“Lizzie.” Snowley somehow managed a puppylike expression. “Why did you have to give
him
my room?”

Good Lord. “Does it matter? It's too late to do anything about it now.”

Lady Whitby raised her chin in clear preparation of sweeping out of the foyer. “Come along, Anna. I knew we shouldn't have accepted this invitation.”

“She ought to be glad to have you for a neighbor,” Lizzie told her cousin. “Your grandmama would have scandalized her far more.”

A throat clearing stopped any reply Snowley might have made. “Your pardon, my lady.” Caruthers stepped into the spot Lady Whitby had just vacated. “Cook needs you in the kitchens right away.”

Marvelous. For the cook to summon her when her guests had just arrived could only signal a disaster. Wasn't this house party off to a perfectly swimming start?

Pendleton's accommodations weren't any more comfortable or well appointed than Dysart's quarters. In fact, he mused as he sat facing the door in a brocade wing chair, this chamber was possibly less spacious.

The man's luggage stood crammed hard by the bed, along with several extra pairs of boots. Not Hessians but proper riding gear. In fact, his trunks were stuffed with buckskins and weathered topcoats, the sort of garments a man who spent his days in the saddle preferred. In deference to society, Pendleton had included a few ensembles suited to evening activities, but without so much as a single pair of dancing slippers.

Dysart knew this, because he'd already rifled through Pendleton's possessions. He'd been looking for God only knew what. Something that might indicate Pendleton was still up to no good, but there Dysart came away empty-handed. Still, it was better to know what one might be up against.