He had a face like a hawk, all sharp angles and a slightly hooked nose, and his hair was thick and dark. His cheekbones slashed down to a thin-lipped mouth that rarely smiled. In his mid-thirties and now titled, Franklin was considered very eligible. She supposed he was handsome, but his resemblance to Edward, both physically and in his demeanor, was too unsettling. Heavy-lidded eyes regarded her with his usual chilly appraisal.
It was like being ogled by a bird of prey, she thought in distaste. No, a vulture, ready to pick the flesh from her bones if she didn’t protect herself.
She stiffened at his tone and the presumption he could dictate anything about her life, much less lecture her on propriety. “I went with Melinda Cassat and her husband, so I was hardly alone. You needn’t worry about my welfare in any case.”
Franklin leaned forward a fraction, dapper in clothes more suited to a courtier than a gentleman making a morning call. Lace bunched at his throat and the edges of his sleeves. “Ah, but let’s not forget you are my widowed cousin, so worry I must.”
“Pray, do not concern yourself.” She wanted nothing more than to put any association with the Wynn family firmly behind her, and Franklin always made her uneasy. If she had to guess, his interest in her welfare had little to do with her person and everything to do with how much money Edward had left her. Luckily the will had been able to stand up to his protests. The entire affair had been yet another lesson in how hard-won independence could be.
“Your reentry into society is of infinite concern to me.” His emotionless gaze seemed to bore right through her.
“I cannot think why it would be. I live a quiet life for the most part. I am gradually beginning to accept some invitations, but—”
“Perhaps I should be consulted on what events you attend.”
Annoyance deepened into something more. “I’m a widow,” she reminded him in stiff reproof. Then, since he was the one who had called and he was the one who insisted on making presumptions, she added unwisely, “With my own fortune.”
It was his turn to be irritated, the subject a sore one. It took him a moment, but he visibly conquered the flare of anger. “I realize full well, my dear, the state of your finances. I also know you are young and still very marriageable. Unscrupulous gentlemen do exist and it is my duty to protect you.”
Whatever Caroline might have said next probably would have been rash and ill-advised, but luckily she was able to bite her tongue. She glanced around at the pale walls and luxuriant fabrics, which she felt were indicative of her independence. She did wish the return note from Rothay wasn’t currently clutched in her rather damp hand. She could have maintained more self-possession in Franklin’s company if the damning piece of vellum hadn’t been burning a hole in her palm. Her butler had brought it in at the same time as announcing her unwanted visitor, and Caroline was desperately curious to get rid of Franklin and read Rothay’s response. It felt like a glowing-hot coal she should throw as far away from her person as possible.
If Franklin knew what it was, he’d smear her name, and with great pleasure. She had no illusions about what he was capable of doing if given the chance.
“Melinda and her husband were quite adequate chaperones and no one approached me. Not having attended the races before, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I thought it all quite exciting.”
It had been, from the well-dressed crowd, the exuberant cheers, the thundering glory of the sleek horses, to the moment she’d taken a deep breath as she’d seen the Duke of Rothay and Lord Manderville, a contrast of dark male satanic beauty and golden Apollonian good looks. Alike, yet so very different physically, both so at ease with their notoriety, so comfortably above the whispers and furtive looks, as if they were laws unto themselves and just didn’t notice the swivel of heads or the furtive whispers behind gloved hands.
What would Melinda do if she knew the return note from Rothay sat—unread at this time—in her possession? Or worse, what would she think if she realized that Caroline, of all people, had approached the infamous duke and his equally renowned friend?
It was an easy question to answer. Melinda wouldn’t believe it. No one would.
She wasn’t sure she believed it herself.
“I am delighted you enjoyed yourself, my dear, but you know I am always at your disposal.” Franklin settled back in his chair as if he intended to stay a while, crossing his elegantly clad legs at the ankle.
The slight suggestive tone to his voice made her stifle a shiver. Disposal. Hardly a sexual word, but something in the way he enunciated it gave it a lewd insinuation. It was hard not to wonder if he wasn’t like Edward in more ways than just his physical appearance. Not that he would ever bother to court her—she had no illusions in that quarter. He wanted control of the inheritance he thought should be rightfully his, and she stood between him and his goal, hence his solicitous interest.
Caroline nodded, but it was a dubious inclination of her head to cover her revulsion. In her bitter experience, the Wynn family had a tenacious edge that was hard to disregard, so a direct confrontation was not a good idea. “I thank you for the offer.”
“I still look forward to a sojourn in the country so we can discuss matters like this at our leisure. My mother will chaperone, naturally.”
Though Franklin had told her she could use the house if she wished, she’d declined to accept anything from him, even hospitality.
“Perhaps someday.” She was acutely aware of the missive sitting next to her on the fabric of her chair, her hand settled over it in a casual manner to cover it as much as possible.
What does it say?
How difficult it was to sit there, composed, with the complete cool serenity that made her seem so unapproachable to most importunate gentlemen.
The outward image was fine.
The inner truth a bit harder to face.
Franklin persisted, “As for London, I can modestly say that I can advise you on what invitations to accept or decline. After all, I have more experience.”
Was the room too warm or was it just her? Caroline fought the urge to fan herself and smiled instead. “I so admire your ability to move through society with such utter ease, my lord.”
“Another advantageous marriage would help you along as well.” He lifted a heavy brow, the arrogance of his implication like the jab of a needle.
He wanted her money. She had a disgusted feeling he coveted her body as well, but on the pain of death, she’d never,
ever
agree to that idea.
He didn’t need to know the reticence she felt in public, and in private actually, was something she was trying to overcome. With the help of one very handsome duke and one equally attractive young earl.
Maybe.
It felt like an eternity before he glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel and got to his feet. “My apologies, but I have an appointment. I’ll call for you next week. If the weather is pleasant, perhaps we can plan a small outing.”
She’d rather be run over by a herd of stampeding elephants, but she somehow managed a banal smile. “Perhaps.”
Caroline waited until she heard the rattle of the departing carriage before she carefully lifted the envelope that had been delivered.
Even the duke’s handwriting was arrogant, she thought, staring at the missive for a moment before taking a deep breath and opening it. She removed the single sheet of paper inside with fingers that shook in a betraying manner as she held it and read the answer to her imprudent proposal.
He was probably going to lose the infamous wager, but the best way to conceal a broken heart was with foolish male bravado, or at least that’s how
he
was dealing with it.
The carriage rumbled along Upper Brook Street and Derek Drake stared out the window, not seeing the view, but instead absorbed in his thoughts.
They weren’t the most pleasant, unfortunately. Mostly they involved visions of Annabel—no, a correction was necessary: soon-to-be Lady Hyatt—in the arms of her new husband. Naked, in his embrace, his mouth on hers, her golden hair gleaming across the bed linens as they moved together in an age-old rhythm, her slim legs spread wide as her lover thrust inside her willing body . . .
Well, it was certainly productive to picture
that
, he chided himself morosely, sinking lower against the squabs and letting out a frustrated breath. Torturing himself was not helping matters. It was what landed him into his current predicament. The fact he’d gotten so deep in his cups the night he and Rothay had started their adolescent debate didn’t surprise him, and maybe even the public bet had been a way to strike back at Annie for the announcement that had appeared in the paper.
The Honourable Thomas Drake wishes to announce the formal engagement of Miss Annabel Reid to Lord Alfred Hyatt. The nuptials will take place four months hence. . . .
Derek hadn’t been able to read any further.
It had hurt. Bloody hell, seeing it there in stark print had
hurt
. More than even he expected, though his uncle Thomas had already told him of the offer for her hand and her acceptance along with his own opinion it was a suitable match.
Yet the slice of the pain as Derek sat there and stared at the bold lettering of the public announcement and felt the implications settle into his soul had opened a raw, bleeding wound.
So to improve things, he thought with an inner wince, he’d gotten thoroughly foxed and decided to worsen the reputation Annabel already found repugnant by making a challenge that now had London buzzing with speculation. It didn’t help that he and Nicholas had a past history of competition in everything from academics to athletics to—of course—women. Part of it was just an innate aspect to both their personalities, part of it the result of similar backgrounds. They’d inherited their wealth and titles young, and along with them both the freedom and constraints that came with the legacies. Their friendship had been immediate and natural, like two brothers meeting face-to-face for the first time and recognizing each other.
It had spurred on the nonsensical debate of the other evening. Nicholas had his own demons he held close. Derek was well aware his friend had a less-than-happy experience that kept him guarded, no matter how charming he might seem on the outside. Nick didn’t talk about it, and Derek didn’t ask questions about the near-disastrous brush with romance that revealed itself as calculated avarice rather than deep feeling on the part of the woman Nicholas thought he would marry. It was an unspoken agreement between them not to discuss the matter, not violated for the ten years of their acquaintance.
They were, after all, very alike.
Now it seemed to be Derek’s turn to burn in hell.
No doubt Annabel was even less fond of him than ever.
If
that was even possible. Why was it he’d never realized he was in love with her until it was too late?
Because he was a damned fool, of course. She loved someone else. Lord Alfred Hyatt was a decent sort as far as he could tell, which only made matters worse. If she were marrying a cad, he could reasonably voice an objection, but she wasn’t, so he couldn’t, and she would never listen to his advice anyway.
Why should she? He was an expert on impermanence, not marriage.
“My lord?”
The voice roused him from his abstraction and he realized the vehicle had come to a halt and his driver stood there waiting, the door ajar. The young man gave a discreet cough.
“Sorry.” Derek clambered out, a rueful smile on his face. “Drank a bit this afternoon,” he said unnecessarily, wondering why he was offering an explanation to a servant. Probably because he had no idea how long he might have been sitting there in morose contemplation. He went up the steps to his town house, nodded his thanks to the footman who opened the door, and headed straight for his study.
Unlike the cluttered room at the sprawling Mayfair mansion the dukes of Rothay had called home for several centuries, Derek’s sanctuary was neat and organized. All his papers were stacked on one corner of his desk, the new correspondence in the middle of the blotter, his favorite whiskey in a decanter on a tray to the side. The room smelled like beeswax and faintly of tobacco, and usually he found comfort in the paneled walls, and the oil painting of the Berkshire countryside above the fireplace was one of his favorites. In his current state of emotional unrest, even the bucolic impression of the rolling downs did nothing for his restless spirit.
He sank into the chair behind his desk and eyed his unopened letters with a jaded look. On top sat a plain envelope with no seal, only his name written in neat script on the front. Curious, he plucked it off the pile and opened it.
My Lord Manderville:
Meet me at the Flower and Swine in Holborn at ten o’clock this evening. The private parlor will be reserved for our discussion.
Ah yes, the damned bet.
No signature, but he recognized the writing from the note he’d read earlier. Well, the lady was prompt, he’d give her that. It was an easy assumption to guess Nicholas had gotten a similar missive.
He picked up the letter opener with his family crest emblazoned on the metal handle, and twirled it idly between his fingers.
Fine, he thought with fierce resignation. Why not attend? Why not do his best to prove his sexual prowess? At the least, he’d have a distraction from his current state of apathetic self-pity, plus be able to entertain himself with a warm, willing woman.
If he closed his eyes, maybe he could even pretend he was making love to Annabel. With that strategy he might win after all.
Chapter Three
T
he inn was small, tucked into an East End neighborhood Caroline hadn’t visited before. The disreputable exterior had given her pause, but it was perfect for her purposes, as the few bleary patrons in the smoky, dank taproom paid her little attention. The innkeeper had shown her to a sitting room that was at least a step up from the sticky floor and wobbly tables of the main area, and brought a bottle of wine that was doubtless not at all what the lofty Duke of Rothay and Lord Manderville were used to drinking, but it would have to do.