Page 4

Chapter Four

The Reluctant Earl

January 14, 1842

C aleb Halliwell had come to London for one reason alone. He was in dire need of a wife. The magnitude of the fortune he would forfeit if he chose not to pursue wedded bliss was beyond considering. The very idea of sacrificing so much for the sake of bachelorhood, which in all honesty had not been nearly so much fun as he’d been led to believe, was nothing short of foolishness.

His very recently departed great-uncle had left him both a title and a hefty inheritance if—and only if—he got himself married to a society miss. A London society miss, at that. She had to be at least loosely connected to someone with a title. There was only one great obstacle to his quest. He deplored society. He found it awkward and trivial and terribly dull. Not to mention, he would have the devil of a time finding a wife of his own when so much of his time and energy was now being devoted to fending off the already married women of the ton . They’d scented him like predators in the wild.

He wasn’t so vain as to mistake, or overestimate, his own appeal. Handsome enough if far from the patrician prettiness of the aristocracy, he was taller by a head than most men with the raw-boned frame of a man who’d done hard labor. In short, he was something of a novelty to them. Because he’d worked with his hands. Because he’d dug in the mines himself, gotten dirty, and was rough enough around the edges to show it. The same reason they all turned their noses up at him was the very same reason many of them were turning back their covers and inviting him into their beds.

“Is it really so dire? You’re an earl for heaven’s sake! One would think you’d be sought after by most of the ladies. Surely there is something in your current situation to be enjoyed?”

Caleb turned to Jacob Danvers, his oldest friend and his companion in the current madness. They’d gone to University together, though Jacob’s father had only been a clerk in the mining company Caleb’s grandfather had owned. Jacob had been put through school with the understanding that he would come to work for the mines in the same capacity that his father had done, but as time wore on, it became quite clear that work was a concept Jacob deplored merely on principle. He certainly had no practical experience with it.

It had never seemed an insurmountable gap in their stations—he the heir to the mine’s founder and his friend the son of an employee—not until recently at any rate. Not until every time someone addressed Caleb as “my lord” or called him the Earl of St. Aiden. Then there was something in Jacob’s expression which would shift, a hardness entering his gaze and a sudden bite to his words. Jealousy was both an ugly emotion and a dangerous one. Friendships had been destroyed for much less than a title.

“I have no desire to be pursued to such degree by the masses or their very eager and terrifying mothers. I need one woman. One suitable, tolerable woman,” Caleb groused. “That is all. This entire mess is not of my choosing—neither the title nor the hunt for a wife.”

“What the devil does that mean? Suitable and tolerable?”

Caleb shrugged. It was simple enough to his mind. “I want only to meet a young lady whom I can get on reasonably well with, pretty enough that marriage to her will not feel like a chore and who can, I pray, hold a conversation about something other than fashion or gossip. Is it so wrong to hope that, despite the rather bloodless impetus put upon me to marry quickly, I should still hope to marry at least contentedly?”

Jacob shrugged. “I know of no man content in a married state. It seems unnatural. One woman for the rest of one’s life—well, if one buys into all that rot. You should hope to find a woman of a practical enough nature to appreciate a husband who won’t be forever demanding she bear the fruitful burden of his attentions.”

“No such woman exists,” Caleb said dismissively. And in truth, he had no desire to meet or marry a woman who’d meet that description.

“And that is why the state of matrimony is not for one such as me. No, thank you. I’ll continue my carefree carousing like a tom cat until I cock up my toes.”

Caleb said nothing. Jacob’s carousing was a source of consternation for him. The small bequest his grandfather had left to Jacob’s father had already been frittered away along with everything else he might have passed down to his son. Lost to brothels and hells, the money that should have secured his friend’s future had been squandered on momentary pleasures.

In that moment, Caleb was suddenly distracted from any concerns he might have over his friend’s poor behavior and poorer decisions. It was like being struck by lightning. Like the clouds parting for the sun, he could now see precisely what—and who—he wanted. Whatever sun idioms came to mind, she was definitely a creature far more inclined to moonlight. Pale skin, eyes of midnight blue, and a cascade of black curls that were darker than a raven’s wing—she was simply stunning beyond words. And she seemed to be both in the crowd and well above it at the same time. They milled about her, but she paid them not the least bit of mind. Self-contained, he thought. And that appealed to him greatly.

“Who is she?” Caleb asked, almost whispering the question to himself.

“The dark one?”

Caleb couldn’t actually speak to respond, so he simply nodded.

“I have no idea. Perhaps you should beg our hostess for an introduction… once she’s done with you, of course.” Jacob offered the last with a teasing note.

Caleb grimaced. He would have done just that, asking for the introduction that was. But he knew Lady Crowden would likely demand he service her like a stud in exchange for the favor and he was not inclined to do so. Given that they’d met because she’d cornered him on a darkened path at Cremorne Gardens and kissed him, quite soundly, before he’d even recognized who she was—well, that was the only reason he’d been invited at all that night. She wanted much more from him than a mere kiss. And while he was not inclined to give it to her, it would be a mistake to offend her. She was a powerful hostess in society. Putting himself outside of her good graces would result in a dearth of invitations, making his search for a bride inherently more difficult. “No. I’ll find out on my own.”

Jacob shook his head, clucking his tongue. “You cannot simply introduce yourself to the young woman, Caleb. She isn’t a miner in the fields to be approached with a hearty handshake! Society misses such as that rare beauty require introductions. Then they require calls. And letters. Posies and chocolates and carting them about in Hyde Park—let them parade you around like a dog on a leash.”

Caleb turned to Jacob with one brow lifted skeptically. “Have you always been so jaded?”

“Have you always been so naive? You’ll have to toady to the girl for weeks before you’ll even get to know her well enough to discover whether you like something other than her pretty face,” Jacob answered with a sneer. “And then, if you don’t, you’ll be starting all over again with the next one, won’t you?”

It had become a familiar refrain. Whenever Caleb had seen any woman who had piqued his interest, though none had done so with such immediacy as the woman before him, Jacob had been the naysayer. The voice of doom. The obstacle in his path. Not for the first time, Caleb wondered why his friend seemed so determined to keep him from making a match. “I will find a way to speak with her, Jacob. Perhaps you’d have more fun at one of the clubs on St. James Street? These ballrooms full of young misses apparently bore you to tears.” It was true enough; Jacob was yawning through Caleb’s reply.

“And miss seeing you make a fool of yourself? I think not.”

“I’m going to speak to some other acquaintances present and see if perhaps anyone—other than Lady Crowden—can manage an introduction.” With that, Caleb walked away, leaving Jacob to stare after him. It sent an icy frisson down his spine to present his back to a man he would have, not so very long ago, trusted with his funds, his secrets, and even his life.

*

Miss Marina Ashton smiled politely at the aging man she had just danced with. Dance partners were not so plentiful for her now that she could afford to turn one down. Despite the age spots on his hands, his balding pate and pudgy middle, it had been a pleasant dance. He’d been a perfect gentleman—simply not the gentleman for her. She had begun to believe no such gentleman existed. After all, in her first Season, she’d been courted by some of the most eligible bachelors amongst the ton . And she’d scorned them all in favor of Stanford. Recalling what it had once been like, to be so sought after, even if for the wrong reasons, her current predicament was almost laughable.

After she’d returned to society, two years following the debacle at the altar, she’d been hopeful, if only briefly, that her life might take on some semblance of how it had been before. But those hopes had been quickly dashed and had now been replaced with the kind of ennui that made every society event seem a chore. And every man who looked at her now, who paid her the least bit of attention, was suspect, at least to her mind. In fact, Marina had become so convinced that there was no one for her, that she’d all but given up on the idea of marriage, though for the sake of appearances, she still had to maintain the illusion that she was on the hunt. After all, any young woman professing to have no interest in marriage was an object of curiosity. She’d drawn enough attention to herself already.

Her dance card was empty for the next set, which was something of a relief actually. The hem of her pale-pink silk ball gown had been trodden upon several times already. It was an unfortunate byproduct of being relegated to dancing with less eligible men. From belle of the ball to the purgatory of not quite a wallflower. Of course, she was believed to be a jilt, a tease, a fickle miss who didn’t know her own mind. And Stanford’s pettiness in retelling the tale of it countless times in the wake of their failed wedding had done nothing to mitigate that sort of gossip.

Neither had it helped that she’d refused so many suitors in her first Season. And with good reason, after all, since they had only bothered to court her after discovering that becoming her husband would obtain a fortune for them. Was it any wonder she’d turned them down? It was grossly unfair to be thought of as fickle and inconstant when, in fact, she’d refused so many offers of marriage precisely because she did know her own mind. Of course, not even the promise of a fortune could tempt most men to court the kind of humiliation that Stanford insisted he had suffered due to her collapse at the altar. There had been only one offer of courtship during her second Season and none so far in her third. Though to be fair, there was a gentleman who would offer, but she dodged him at every turn. Refusing him outright would only further cement public opinion of her.

Still, all of it stung a bit. Because doors had been closed to her through no fault of her own. After all, she’d have happily married Stanford had she not discovered he was a liar and a fortune hunter—yet it was her reputation which had suffered. Her reputation which now meant the men who danced with her were more often than not refused by their first choices. And then, of course, it was quite obvious to most people that many of the men who asked her to dance never had any intention of courting her, much less marrying her.

Realizing that she was being as hard on others as she was on herself with her mental castigation, Marina took a calming breath. No, it wasn’t entirely their fault, just as it wasn’t entirely her own. She had, albeit inadvertently, called off an engagement as the wedding itself was in the offing. And in the eyes of the world, Stanford was the wronged party. In truth, even if his perfidy was disclosed, her sin of publicly humiliating him would still be viewed as far greater than his—after all, who didn’t marry for money? And how many men were truly expected to be faithful? But just because she didn’t necessarily want to marry, she still wanted a degree of romance in her life. She wanted to at least feel that she wasn’t a pariah. So she clung to the thought that eventually some other scandal would come along and she would be largely forgotten about—hopefully before she was too firmly on the shelf.

As she was making her way across the ballroom, Marina was beset by the sudden sensation of being stared at. It wasn’t unusual and typically meant those staring were whispering about her. But this felt different. Turning her head just slightly, she saw a far-too-handsome gentleman standing near the edge of the dance floor. Dark haired and curiously rugged in the midst of so many gentlemen who looked as if a stiff wind might bowl them over, he stood out in the crowd. She did not know him. They had never been introduced, which meant he was likely new in town. Looking away for just a moment, she glanced back at him and still he was staring. This time, he offered her a smile and a slight nod. It was most decidedly not her imagination. He was not only staring, now he was flirting. Well, not flirting perhaps, but certainly not hiding the fact that he had indeed been staring at her.

Uncertain what to do as no truly eligible gentleman had flirted with or even displayed the slightest interest in her in some time, Marina simply continued on her way. Perhaps he would follow? Perhaps he would ask for an introduction from Lady Crowden. Though thinking of that woman, Marina couldn’t stop a shudder. She still recalled that fateful night when she’d overheard her with Stanford. But she’d made peace with it of a sort, because he’d been lying to her also. He’d married another very quickly, almost as if he’d had an alternate in mind all along.

Another glance back, but she couldn’t see him through the throng of guests now. She was rather curiously disappointed by that. If he were the sort of gentleman worth considering that is what he would do—ask for an introduction. Would Lady Crowden warn him off as so many others had been warned away by her? If so, there was naught she could do about it. And as she didn’t want to have her hopes dashed, it was best not to entertain them at all.

Across the room, she could see her Aunt Willa watching with concern. On this, one of the few truly grand events she’d been invited to for her third Season, Marina was forced to admit that her aunt’s concern was valid. Even the hefty dowry that her Uncle Devil had settled upon her was not an enticing enough inducement for most men to make such a scandalous match. Her own choosiness in her first Season had marked her as “difficult.” Others said she was too high in the instep. More still said she was destined for the same fate as her mother—to run off with an entirely unsuitable man. Another thought entered her mind then, one too scandalous to ever utter aloud. Perhaps she would, one day, as the suitable men were becoming fewer and farther between. Those who would consider her as a prospective bride were either too old, too greedy for her wealth, or simply a terrible match for reasons her Uncle Devil would not divulge. And if he wouldn’t tell her, that meant only one thing. They were wicked and likely not in a way that might be enticing.

Although, if some of the things she’d heard about her Uncle Devil’s reputation were to be believed, he’d been quite wicked himself. And he’d made a marvelous husband to her Aunt Willa. In truth, Marina could hardly recall the rough start she’d had in life. That thought brought a pang of sadness with it, as well. For that also meant that she had no truly clear memories of her mother. They were faint, mere shadows in her mind. It was like a tune that one caught oneself humming without knowing where they’d heard it or how to finish it beyond a few simple bars.

“You’re frowning. You’ll never catch a husband that way.” The words were uttered in a conspiratorial whisper.

Marina looked over at her dearest friend, Charlotte Hamilton, who was just as scandalous as she herself was. Through no fault of her own, of course. Like Marina, Charlotte was very much tarnished by the sins of her parents, though Charlotte hadn’t left a man practically at the altar, so at least there was that.

“Apparently, my difficulty isn’t in catching a husband so much as not throwing him back. Besides, I’m not looking for a husband, so I may frown all I like,” Marina answered with a grin.

Charlotte’s lips primped as she tried not to laugh. “You are quite wicked sometimes, but I do love you for it.”

Surreptitiously glancing over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of the dark-haired man. He was still watching her. “Charlotte, do you know that gentleman?”

Charlotte, never one for subtlety, simply turned about and stared directly at him.

“For goodness’ sake, Charlotte! You might as well be shouting like a fishwife that we’re talking about him,” Marina hissed at her friend. “Turn back around.”

Charlotte did so with a sigh. “I do not understand why, if we like the look of a gentleman, we cannot simply ask for his name. It’s senseless—all this proper introduction business… But alas, I do not know him. Though he is remarkably handsome! Don’t you think?”

Marina was saved from admitting how handsome she found him to be by the disruptive cacophony of an all too familiar and grating laugh. The sound had originated nearby. Glancing in the other direction, Marina fervently wished that she knew more curse words. Miss Elizabeth Whitmore. Vicious gossip. Evil incarnate. Arch nemesis. But she was disarmingly beautiful. It was her third Season out, as well. And she’d have been long married off if only she weren’t such a terrible person. She was feared more than liked courtesy of her viperous nature. And if anyone did make the mistake of thinking her cold exterior hid a heart of gold, they certainly didn’t think so for long. If there was one truly safe wager to make, turning one’s back on Elizabeth was like presenting one’s back to a venomous snake. You might not see it coming, but the strike would occur regardless. She could not be trusted. Marina had learned that the hard way.

At the beginning of her first Season, she’d struck up a friendship, of sorts, with Elizabeth. Until Stanford. Marina hadn’t known that Elizabeth had any feelings for him. They’d never discussed it, never spoken of him. It was only when he’d made his intentions known, that he intended to court her and pursue an understanding, that Elizabeth had disclosed that she had a tendre for him. She’d accused Marina of betraying their friendship and had turned on her very quickly. Funnily enough, in retrospect, she’d done Elizabeth a favor without meaning to.

“Oh, how I detest her!” Charlotte fumed. “Look at her. Smug. Self-righteous. Superior. And all the while she’s just a viper in pink silk.”

Picturing a snake wrapped in pink silk, the image prompted a giggle from Marina. It bubbled out of her so quickly she had no chance to stifle it. And the moment it erupted, Elizabeth’s cold gaze landed on her. There was no question how it looked or that repayment for the perceived insult would be harsh and swift. They were caught staring at her and giggling, after all, and she would be quite right in presuming that it had been at her expense. It was an offense that would not be overlooked or forgiven. In truth, Marina was well aware that there would be veritable hell to pay.

“Oh, we’ve done it now,” Charlotte said.

Marina tried to appear calm and unruffled. “It isn’t as if she can hate us more than she already does. She would be hard pressed to be more unpleasant, at any rate.”

Charlotte smothered a laugh behind her hand. “Let’s take a turn about the room before we get ourselves into any more trouble. I have only danced with a few gentlemen tonight, but it feels as if an entire army has trod upon my toes and abused my good nature.” Charlotte cut her gaze to the left and in a lower voice added, “Also, unless we make a hasty escape, you’re going to find yourself fending off yet another request from Mr. Nutter for a private audience.”

Marina suppressed a shudder of distaste. A more aptly named fellow she had yet to encounter. He was, perhaps not ready for the asylum, but certainly very, very odd. Linking arms with Charlotte, they crossed the ballroom and disappeared down the hall, heading for the small room that had been designated for ladies to refresh themselves, make use of the necessary, and repair trod upon hems. It was also, thankfully, a very convenient place to hide from unpleasant gentlemen.