Happily Bedded Bliss: The Rakes of Cavendish Square (5 page)

G
abriel nearly turned back as he rode toward the Byron family’s palatial estate, Braebourne. It wasn’t too late to change his mind. He could still return to Cray’s house, pack his bags and leave the area.

He’d never even met this Esme Byron. It was utter insanity to think he was on the verge of doing the gentlemanly thing and proposing marriage to her.

Ridiculous girl.
The blame for this entire fiasco lay squarely in her lap. What had she thought she was about, spying on him as he relaxed in the altogether, then being idiotic enough to immortalize her sneaking ways by means of pencil and paper?

Were she anyone but the damned Duke of Clybourne’s sister, he would have shrugged the whole thing off and left the brazen chit to twist on the end of the noose she’d made herself. But as Clybourne and his band of formidable brothers had explained most insistently last night, they weren’t giving him the option of refusing.

And sadly, they didn’t need a set of pistols to enforce their edict. Not only did they know who he was and where he lived, they also knew scores of influential people who could—and would—make his life an utter misery.

The heads of all the reputable banks in London—and several disreputable ones as well—would, he was told, be asked not to do business with him should he
fail to do the right thing by their sister. Since the Byrons were on friendly terms with both the Rothschilds and financial wizard Rafe Pendragon, he could well see how it wouldn’t be difficult for them to turn every bank in the city against him, including the one that held the mortgage on his London town house. Although the farms and tenant housing at Ten Elms brought in an adequate income, it was far from a grand fortune and insufficient to settle his debts should they be called in all at once. Of course, the irony was that as viscount, he was due to receive a large trust fund should he marry. Despite the financial enticement, he had always resisted before, unwilling to shackle himself in an unwanted union.

But even if the money were not an issue, the Byrons had also informed him that they would see to it he was cast out of Society. Not that he’d ever been warmly welcomed among the
Ton
in spite of his title, but still he was received everywhere, able to set foot in whatever great house he cared to grace. He suspected he would even be admitted to Almack’s, that hallowed bastion of propriety that he’d always avoided like a case of the pox, had he ever seriously decided to look for a bride.

Laughable now to think that he’d never actually had to change his mind about remaining a lifelong bachelor. Instead, he was apparently caught tight in the parson’s noose and by no less than a girl upon whom he’d never even clapped his eyes.

As for Lady Esme, he wondered at her game. Was she really just some foolish young woman who’d drawn a naughty picture and gotten caught? Or had she done this deliberately, lying in wait to trap him into a marriage he most definitely did not want? God only knew many eligible misses had tried—and failed—in the past to do exactly that.

He supposed he would shortly have an opportunity to decide just how duplicitous the future Viscountess Northcote seemed to be.

He ground his teeth together at the thought.

Even now, in spite of the ruin he would surely suffer at the hands of the Byrons, he felt it might be worth calling their bluff and walking away. He’d heard Vienna could be quite nice this time of year.

Then he remembered that the Rothschilds had their fingers in finance there too, assuming he could withdraw sufficient funds from the London banks in time to escape to the Continent in the first place. But did he really want to live as a refugee, denied his home and his friends, all over his refusal to marry some silly, imprudent chit?

No, it would appear that he was well and truly caught.

But if he was, then so was she; he’d make sure she remembered that fact after the wedding ring was on her finger.

At least he could take some grim pleasure in knowing just how furious his uncle would be; the taint of scandal alone would drive him mad. The Byrons might be a wealthy, powerful family, but they were almost as infamous as he was himself. In fact, before being “reformed” by love and several supposedly happy marriages, the Byron men had been known as unrepentant rakehells, raising skirts and eyebrows wherever they went. If there ever was a family of black sheep, it was the Byrons. Fitting, he supposed, that he would soon be joining their ranks.

But first he had to propose—assuming that pretense was even required under the circumstances. She had to be expecting his arrival. For all he knew, she was in the drawing room at this very instant, preening in front of the mirror to make sure her dress and hair looked just right.

Lord save him if she was.

Heaving a sigh at the prospect, he rode on toward Braebourne.

•   •   •

Esme plunged her hands into a bucket of clean water, barely aware of the blood and other unmentionable
substances staining the front of the apron she’d donned for the birth. But it was all over now, mother and babies doing well—all five of them!

She’d had to help a bit with the last two kittens, who had been slow at coming into the world. But finally they had emerged, snuggling, blind and deaf, as newborn kittens were, against their mother so she could groom them clean and urge them to drink their first meal of mother’s milk.

All five tiny, adorable kittens—two tabby-striped, two black and one white—had eaten and were sleeping contentedly with their mother in the warm blanket-lined box Esme had prepared for them. Abigail had eaten a small amount of the minced chicken Esme had sent to the kitchens for; then she too had dropped off to sleep, exhausted from the exertion of having given birth.

Esme smiled down at them, already thinking about various friends and neighbors who might be willing to adopt the kittens once they were old enough to be weaned and settled in new homes. And, of course, a few of her siblings might have room in their homes for a new feline addition. The older of her nieces and nephews would want to see the kittens. Once they did, she suspected they would be begging to take home their favorites.

For tonight they would remain here in the feed room, but tomorrow she planned to move them to a more secluded part of the stable, where they would be in no danger of getting underfoot as the grooms did their work.

After one last look at her furry charges, she turned away and headed toward the main stable doors. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun warm and bold, making her realize that the hour was more advanced than she had thought.

Her stomach panged and she became abruptly aware of just how famished she was. If she was lucky, she might be able to wheedle some tea and biscuits out of
Grumbly. Otherwise, she’d have to wait for nuncheon, which was never served earlier than one o’clock.

She walked toward the house, not bothering to stop and look as she cut through a break in a high hedgerow and stepped out onto the graveled drive. A pounding of hooves came to her ears seconds before she saw the massive gray stallion thundering toward her. She cried out and instinctively raised an arm to shield herself from what was certain to be a brutal blow.

But it never came, the rider reacting so quickly that he slowed the animal’s speed and shifted his mount’s direction in the blink of an eye.

The horse whinnied and reared, great equine hooves slashing the air only inches from her head. The man turned the frightened horse again so that when the stallion’s legs came back to earth he was well clear of her, the rider having controlled his mount with a skill that was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

Esme stared wide-eyed, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps as she willed her heart to stop beating like a tom-tom. She pressed a hand to her hammering chest and gazed up, then up again.

Good heavens, it’s him! The man from my drawing.

Only he was wearing clothes this time—and one of the darkest, most furiously menacing scowls she had ever seen, which, considering her six devil-take-the-hindmost older brothers, was saying a great deal.

“Are you injured?” he barked in a harsh tone. “Have you suffered any harm?”

“No, I—” She took a moment to assess her health. “I am well, physically, at least.”

“A state for which you have my quick reflexes to thank. What in Hades’ name did you think you were doing, darting out from between those bushes like that? My horse and I nearly ran you down, you idiot girl.”

Whatever guilt Esme had been feeling for her part in the near accident vanished with the words “idiot
girl.” Her arms dropped to her sides, her fingers curling into fists.

“I was taking a shortcut to the house,” she said in clipped tones, “which would not have been a problem had you been riding at a less reckless pace.”

“Reckless? I was cantering. That is hardly a dangerous speed.”

“It is when you are traveling on an unfamiliar lane and fail to watch what is in your path.”

“That was not a matter of not watching. I would have spotted you with plenty of time to spare had you not leapt out of that hedge like some deranged rabbit.”

“Oh, so now I’m deranged
and
an idiot, am I?”

He shrugged. “As you say. It is good to know you are willing to admit your own failings.”

“Why you—you—” Her fingers balled tighter at her sides.

She wanted to tell him exactly how ungentlemanly she thought him but couldn’t come up with a term vile enough. If only he would climb down from his horse, so she could express her feelings without having to crane back her neck. She was getting a crick just looking up. And to think she’d once found him appealing; she liked him far better naked and asleep.

“Yes? Go on? What is it you wish to call me?” he drawled in a rich baritone.

She resisted the urge to flush as he raked his tawny-eyed gaze over her. Judging by his expression, he clearly found her lacking in that regard as well. Not that she could entirely blame him, given her shabby attire, which was only made worse by the begrimed apron she still wore. Then there was her hair, which trailed untidily down her back, a few damp tendrils clinging to her forehead and cheeks due to her recent efforts at helping to deliver Abigail’s kittens.

“There are any number of choice terms I could apply to you,” she said, “several of them involving the barnyard. But since most of them would be an insult to the
animals living there, I shall refrain from saying them aloud.”

His lips twitched, his fierce eyes glittering with a dangerous light, as if he were caught somewhere between anger and amusement. “Cheeky piece, aren’t you?” Then to her astonishment, he winked. “Hurry on to wherever it is you were bound. I shouldn’t wish to make you even later in resuming your duties, or to be the cause of you suffering any punishment, however deserving of it you may be.”

Her lips parted, no sound coming out.

She was still contemplating his remark and the erroneous assumption that she was a servant when he touched a finger to his tall beaver hat, pressed a knee to his mount’s side and set off again—at a gallop, she noticed.

For a moment, she stood watching him disappear up the main drive toward the front entrance of the house. Then she came back to herself, once again remembering the time.

Hurrying forward, she moved across the lane and onto the lawn, her destination a quiet side door in the east wing that the servants always left unlocked for her use.

As for Lord Northcote and his unexpected arrival, she tried hard not to think about it at all.

“M
ore tea, Lord Northcote?” asked Claire, Duchess of Clybourne, from her place on one of the elegant drawing room sofas.

Gabriel was seated in a surprisingly comfortable armchair across from her, his nearly empty china cup balanced on his knee. “Thank you, but no.” He set the cup and saucer aside, his gaze straying toward the mantel clock and the ever-lengthening morning; he’d already been here an hour.

“I cannot think what must be keeping Esme,” the duchess said, her own gaze darting toward the clock. “I’ll just go check on her, shall I?”

Jumping to her feet, she left the room.

But her departure had not left Gabriel alone; the various Byron brothers were scattered throughout the space like a royal guard, and a silent one at that.

The duke was reading a newspaper, making no attempt to conceal the fact that he was present merely to ensure that Gabriel made good on his promise to do the honorable thing, regardless of how little the term actually applied in his case.

Cade, Jack and Adam Gresham were playing a quiet game of cards at a table near the windows, while Drake sat on a chair near the fireplace, periodically penciling notes onto a small pad.

As for Leo and Lawrence, they were still cross with him and had spent the past hour shooting identical
glares his way in between foraging trips to the tea tray. Between the two of them, they’d eaten most of the scones and biscuits and virtually all of the lemon curd.

Gabriel would likely have found the situation amusing had his circumstances not been so patently lacking in humor. Not for the first time, he considered standing up and telling them all to go bugger themselves, that he wasn’t marrying their impetuous chit of a sister after all. But seeing as he was outnumbered again, and in Byron home territory this time, he thought better of the plan. Chances were good the brothers would tackle him before he made it halfway out the door.

And so he sat and waited.

And waited.

Arrogant minx. Who does she imagine herself to be, keeping me kicking my heels like this? Oh, that’s right,
he reminded himself as his gaze strayed to Clybourne,
she thinks herself a duke’s sister; that’s who.

Impatient with sitting, he got up and wandered over to the set of windows at the far end of the room. The Byron brothers all looked up for a moment, then, assured he wasn’t trying to make an escape, went back to their own activities. Gabriel stared out across the beautifully manicured lawn with its mature trees and lush flower beds. The long front drive stretched off in an earth-toned ribbon that wound away as far as the eye could see. As he recalled riding up the drive, he thought again of the servant girl he and Maximus had nearly trampled.

He wondered where she was now and what duties she was performing. Based on the stained apron she’d been wearing, he suspected she worked in the kitchens.

She’d certainly been a pretty little thing, with her clear alabaster and rose-tinted skin, stormy blue eyes and small round breasts that had thrust enticingly against the worn fabric of her bodice. Even if she could do with a good dose of caution, he’d found her intriguing—and desirable.

She’d been feisty as well, surprisingly so. Servants were usually far too afraid of losing their positions to ever directly confront a member of the aristocracy, and yet she’d fearlessly gone toe-to-toe with him. He’d rather enjoyed trading barbs with her. It made him wonder what she’d be like in bed. He bet she’d give him a damn fine ride, with enough spirit to keep him guessing what might come next.

He smiled to himself. Perhaps once all this engagement nonsense was resolved, he would seek her out. A bit of extracurricular sport might be exactly what he needed to smooth out the rough spots in his mood.

With a silent huff of exasperation, he wondered how much longer his “intended” planned to keep him waiting.

Annoying little baggage.

Without warning, the drawing room door opened and in walked what appeared to be an entire gaggle of women, the skirts of their brightly colored gowns shimmering in rainbow hues. He stared, doing a quick head count, and realized there were eight of them in total. Good thing the drawing room was large; there were so many people inside it now the duke and duchess could have hosted a party.

Are they all Byrons—or Byron brides at least?
He assumed so, recognizing three of the ladies—Claire; Ava, the dowager duchess, whom he had met briefly on his arrival; and Mallory, Lady Gresham. But which one of the others, he wondered, was the elusive Lady Esme?

He moved forward, looking from face to face. Then abruptly he stopped, as if he’d walked into a brick wall, his gaze falling on a dark-haired young woman he most definitely had never expected to see in this room.

“You!” he exclaimed, his eyes widening.

For there she stood, the servant girl about whom he’d just been fantasizing—only she was clearly no servant, but rather an elegantly groomed young lady of class and refinement. She was clean and tidy now, dressed in a pale pink silk gown with matching slippers. A darker
pink ribbon was threaded through her upswept sable curls, her skin radiating a healthy, youthful glow.

She lifted her chin and looked him squarely in the eye. “Yes, me, the deranged idiot back once more. How do you do again, my Lord Northcote.”

•   •   •

All around the room, Esme’s brothers got to their feet, looks of suspicion and speculation ripe on their faces. Mama, Claire, Mallory, Sebastianne, Grace, Meg and Thalia looked puzzled as well at this unexpected turn of events. Upstairs, while they’d been gathered in her rooms, waiting for her to finish bathing and dressing so they could coax her to come downstairs rather than slip out of the house again, she’d said nothing to them about her unexpected encounter with Northcote.

Why she’d decided to say something now, even she wasn’t entirely certain. Although mayhap it had something to do with coming face-to-face with Northcote again; when she was around him, her usual reserve seemed to fly straight out the nearest window.

“What is all of this? I thought the two of you were unacquainted,” Edward said, clearly not about to let her comment go unremarked.

“Except in a semibiblical kind of way, of course,” Jack piped. “Naked drawing and all that, you know.”

Edward shot him a quelling look. “Thank you so much, Jack, for that illuminating, and completely unnecessary, explanation.”

Jack grinned like an impish little boy instead of a married father of four. “Anytime, Ned. Always ready to help.”

Across from him, his wife, Grace, shook her head, an amused little smile playing on her lips, which she did her best to hide. Jack met her eyes and waggled his brows. She covered her mouth with a hand and glanced away.

“So, which is it, Northcote?” Lawrence said in a far less amused tone, his arms crossed over his chest. “Do you and Esme know one another after all?”

“What he means is, were you lying to us last night so we wouldn’t beat the stuffing out of you?” Leo’s fierce expression was identical to his twin’s.

“We can still beat the stuffing out of him,” Cade suggested with a militant gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

“Most definitely.” Jack rubbed his hands together. “Shall we take him out to the gardens? Or maybe the woods would be a better spot?”

“Or there’s always the lake,” Drake mused. “Give him a good dunking. Headfirst, I think.”

Cade nodded. “There’s an old army tactic using a sack and bucket. We could—”

“Boys, that will do,” the dowager duchess interrupted in a soft, yet implacable voice that quieted the lot of them instantaneously. “Lord Northcote is our guest and there will be no more of this unpleasant sort of talk.”

Around the room, eyes lowered. “Yes, Mama,” came a chorus of deep male voices.

Apparently satisfied, Ava Byron turned her focus on Northcote. “Now, my lord, do let us clear up this matter so as to eliminate any further confusion. Do you know my daughter Esme or not? Given your exclamation on seeing her when we entered the room, she did not appear to be unfamiliar to you.”

Esme waited, refusing to look away when his gaze shifted to meet hers.

“You are right,” he said, his tawny eyes still locked with hers. “She is not unfamiliar to me, but only because the lady and I had a rather unexpected encounter earlier today. She darted out from behind some bushes and dashed straight into the path of my horse on the drive leading to Braebourne.”

“I did not dart or dash; I
stepped
,” Esme clarified, “and had his lordship been riding at a less dangerous pace than a full-on gallop, he would not have had occasion to nearly run me down.”

He arched one sardonic brow. “Had I been riding as
swiftly as you claim, rather than at a steady canter, I would never have been able to stop in time to avoid a collision.”

“Actually, it is your horse who stopped in time, but since he cannot testify to such matters we shall have to agree to disagree.”

“Yes,” Northcote said with wry amusement, “it seems there will be no meeting of the minds on this topic. As for the outcome, luckily no lasting harm was done to any of us—you, me or my uncommunicative steed.”

“Yes, very lucky indeed.”

She fell silent, only then remembering that they had an audience, as her family looked on with acute interest.

Northcote had apparently not forgotten, however, as he turned back to the dowager duchess. “So, you see, ma’am, I am both acquainted—and yet unacquainted—with your daughter. She is known to me through happenstance rather than introduction. I give you my word that until today, I had never laid eyes upon her.”

“Thank you, Lord Northcote,” Ava said. “I am sure we all appreciate your candor.”

From the expressions around the room, not everyone seemed to agree. The dowager turned toward Esme. “You and I will talk later about this dangerous predilection you seem to have for taking shortcuts through the shrubbery. You were returning from the stables, I presume?”

“Yes, Mama. I had been seeing to Abigail and her brood. I told you about them, remember?”

“And so you did. Curious you omitted nearly being felled by Lord Northcote’s horse on your return, but as I said, we shall speak on this later.”

Esme nodded and lowered her eyes.

“Well,” Edward said, picking up the conversation, “now that we have gotten all that out of the way, allow me to introduce you to my sisters-in-law.” He nodded to each woman in turn. “Northcote, this is Margaret,
Lady Cade; Sebastianne, Lady Drake; Grace, Lady John; Thalia, Lady Leopold; my sister Mallory, Lady Gresham. The duchess and dowager duchess, you already know.”

“Ladies, a pleasure.” Northcote bowed.

“And, of course, my youngest sister, Lady Esme, but then, as we have just ascertained, the two of you have met already.”

“Even if he claims not to remember the first time, since he was asleep,” Lawrence murmured in a quiet aside to Leo that nonetheless carried the length of the room.

Edward turned his glare on Lawrence.

Lawrence stuck his hands into his pockets. “Sorry, but I’m still reserving judgment.”

“Yes, well,” Edward continued, “now that we’ve all been reminded of the reason for Lord Northcote’s visit, perhaps we should get on with today’s business. Let us give Esme and his lordship a few minutes to converse. Ten ought to suffice, I would think.”

“What?” Esme said, watching in sudden alarm as the others began to exit the room, even Mama. Surely they weren’t going to leave her alone with Northcote, who stood observing the exodus with sardonic amusement.

“Mayhap I ought to remain?” said Mallory, uncertainly.

Esme reached out a hand to her sister. “Yes, do, please.”

“Come along, sweet,” Adam told his wife as he slid an arm around her waist. “This will be handled more easily without an audience. And she’s safe enough; we’ll be just next door.” Gresham directed the last comment Northcote’s way.

The viscount lifted a brow and smiled.

Mallory hesitated another few seconds, then squeezed Esme’s hand, her blue-green eyes filled with compassion. “You’ll be fine.”

“But—”

“We shall return shortly,” Edward told her, his tone resigned and strangely sad.

Before she had time to question—or plead with—any of them further, they had gone, closing the doors behind them. She drew a breath, then slowly turned to face Northcote.

He said nothing for a few moments, his expression enigmatic. “Would you care to be seated or should we do this standing up?”

Do what?
she thought, suddenly remembering a few of the more lurid rumors she’d heard whispered about him.

Although they hadn’t met during her London Season, she nevertheless had heard his name in passing, always in the context of gentlemen to strictly avoid. The fact that Leo and Lawrence had a town house next to his . . . well, her brothers had wild reputations of their own—most of which she was also supposed to know nothing about. Add to it the fact that her sister and sisters-in-law weren’t always careful about closing their doors when they decided to gossip, and she knew just enough to give her pause.

But her family wouldn’t have left her alone with him if they had the slightest worry that he might do something untoward. No, her greater concern at the moment was trying not to die of embarrassment, her mind full of memories of the way he’d looked lying naked as he slept beside Cray’s lake.

She cringed inside, vividly aware that he must have seen her sketch of him. Was he thinking of that too?

“I’ll stand, thank you. But please—” She gestured toward the sofa, silently inviting him to take a seat.

He remained where he was, his hands behind his back.

“I suppose I should begin,” she said.

“Should you?” He looked surprised.

She met his gaze, reminded again of how much his eyes looked like those of her hawk—beautifully golden, piercing and predatory.

“Well, yes,” she said. “They’ve all left to spare both of us further embarrassment while I apologize for what I did yesterday. The sketch and all of that, you know.”

“Is that why you think I’m here?” He tipped his head, disbelief ringing in his tone. “To receive an apology?”