Page 2 of Not a Chance in Hell (The Chances #6)

“Y ou are going to be late.”

His butler’s calm and collected voice was one of the few constants in the life of Arthur Nelson, Earl of Taernsby. Not that he was accustomed to that title yet.

“I am never late,” said Arthur vaguely, sitting by his desk with his feet up beside the blotter.

Haslehaw cleared his throat, his strong chin elevated slightly in the air. “Lady Romeril was most insistent.”

“Yes, I suppose she was,” Arthur said sharply. “The woman cannot stay away from scandal and I suppose I would be an interesting catch for her. The rake who inherited an earldom.”

Not that he considered himself a rake—quite the opposite. There was nothing rakish about bedding several women, one after another… Well. Perhaps he was a bit of a rake.

“I really do think it is time for you to leave, my lord,” said the butler stiffly, his groomed, silver eyebrows arched just slightly. “I have had the carriage called around and—”

“I will go when I am ready, Haslehaw, and not before,” said Arthur, his focus dropping to his letters. “That will be all.”

The butler did not leave. In all honesty, Arthur had not expected him to. The man had been his brother’s choice for butler and was very much his older brother’s man even now, despite the most unfortunate accident.

Now Arthur had inherited title, lands, and apparently, the butler. Which made everything nice and awkward.

His gaze focused on the words before him and he groaned.

—never felt this way before and if you offered your hand in marriage, I would gladly accept—

Arthur cast it aside and picked up another one. This was from the youngest daughter of Sir Arnold Quintrell.

—heard the most strange rumor that you were not wishing to be wed, but I am sure you suggested—

Yes, he was sure he had suggested , Arthur considered with a wicked grin. But actually said —promised? Definitely not. His conquests were never given anything near such hope as that.

The rest of the letters were all the same. All written hastily, all on delicate paper with excellent penmanship—or rather, penwomanship—and all of them hoped he would come to call again. Privately. Without their fathers’ knowledge.

Arthur sighed heavily as he collected all the letters from his previous lovers together. It was a shame they did not understand how fleeting his attentions were. Once sated, his appetites usually craved something of a different flavor.

After all, how could he be expected to eat from the same plate every night for the rest of his life?

“Burn these, would you?”

Haslehaw stepped forward with a frown. “His lordship—that is, the previous earl—kept his correspondence for at least three years.”

“I am sure my brother did, but as he is dead and I am your lord now, I gave you an order,” said Arthur tightly through gritted teeth.

He did not need to be reminded. He knew his brother was dead, the man who had been far better suited to this earling about than he was. The man everyone had liked and respected. Mostly.

“But how will you know how to reply?” His butler rapidly blinked.

Arthur sighed heavily. “I won’t.”

“But what reply will you send?”

“None.”

Now both of Haslehaw’s eyebrows were raised. “My lord, you will forgive me for saying so—”

“I suppose I will,” said Arthur with a wry smile. “You know I am utterly dependent on you right now, Haslehaw. Being an earl is turning out to be a much more complicated business than I had imagined.”

Not that he had ever given the role much thought. That had been his brother’s burden to bear, and the two boys had grown apart as it had become more and more clear that Arthur’s position as spare to the title meant that, to their father, his younger son may as well not have existed at all.

After all, Archibald had been here! He would marry, and have sons, and there would be no need to trouble the family with rehabilitating Arthur’s dreadful reputation.

Until the accident.

“Look,” Arthur said aloud, his thoughts meandering. “Who is the heir?”

His butler looked astonished. “I-I… I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”

“If I died, right now, through some sort of drunken orgy with a whole bedful of women,” Arthur said calmly, enjoying the twisting discomfort that fluttered over the older man’s face, “who would be the next person to step into this study and put his feet on the desk?”

Haslehaw swallowed. “No one.”

Arthur waved a hand. “Come, come, now, I will not be offended. I know some lords probably find it difficult to accept that they will one day die and pass on the title to another, but there must be some distant cousin of whom I’ve never heard who—”

“There is no one, my lord, no other male in the Taernsby line,” said the servant quietly. “Should you die, most unfortunately, and more unfortunately still before you have produced a male heir, the title would become extinct.”

A cold shiver shot down Arthur’s spine. “‘Extinct’?”

It was inconceivable. There had been Earls of Taernsby ruining ladies and upsetting their neighbors for… well, hundreds of years. There was still debate about just when the earldom had been created, but the very latest date given was in the fourteenth century.

And he was about to be the last?

The butler spoke quietly. “I know his lordship, your brother, I mean, had given some thought to marriage.”

“The bastard never got around to it, though,” Arthur muttered. That would have made things far easier.

The butler cleared his throat. “Quite.”

“Well, there’s nothing for it then, is there?” Arthur said cheerfully. “I’ll just have to marry—and soon, in case I die without the required heir and spare.”

Haslehaw winced. “I would not quite put it like that…”

Probably not , thought Arthur ruefully, but I’m not wrong . This pile, the London townhouse, the morbid manor in Wiltshire where he had been born and raised—it all needed looking after. Preferably by servants, yes, but eventually, he would die and there had to be an heir.

And there was only one way to get one of those.

“I have to marry.”

The butler blanched. “Tonight, my lord?”

“No, not tonight, don’t be—” Arthur caught the man’s eye and saw with astonishment the small smirk that denoted that the man had made a jest. “Good heavens. Well done, Haslehaw, you caught me completely unawares.”

Haslehaw bowed. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Right.” Arthur blinked. Now that was unexpected . “So, I need to marry. I don’t need to make a song and dance of it, do I? I mean, any woman will do. It doesn’t actually matter who she is.”

“I could not possibly comment, my lord,” said the butler stiffly. He nodded to a servant standing just outside the door and a footman entered, holding out their master’s greatcoat. “I wonder if there will be any eligible young ladies at Lady Romeril’s ball. The ball you are late for.”

Arthur had to give him credit for a conversation well-timed.

“I’ll pick one at the ball and marry her,” he said to Haslehaw five minutes later as the other servant helped the earl into his greatcoat by the front door. “Never fear!”

“Any woman will probably say yes to you, my lord,” Haslehaw said quietly. “I have not heard that any woman has been able to say no to you.”

Arthur grinned. “Damned straight.”

So, he would select a bride at Lady Romeril’s ball, marry her within the month, then they could get down to the important bit: creating heirs. He had a feeling he was going to like that bit.

“Yes, I’ll just marry the first one who takes my fancy,” he said aloud with a wink at the old man. Not any of the ladies who had written letters, though. He was bored of them already. “How hard can it be?”

As Arthur had expected, the ball was frivolous and packed. The sheer number of ladies on offer assaulted him, like stepping into a patisserie and not knowing how to stop engorging oneself.

Arthur exchanged a smile with a pretty, young thing who looked just right: quiet, innocent, flushing at the look of a man, so likely as not pliable. He took in those shapely arms. Potentially very pliable.

He had only taken two steps toward her, however, before a woman who looked suspiciously like the young lady’s mother hurriedly stepped between them.

“My lord,” the dour-faced woman said stiffly, bobbing a curtsey before shepherding away the wistful woman who had to have been her daughter.

Arthur halted in his steps and sighed. Well, if that was to be a sign of the things to come, perhaps it would be trickier than he’d thought to find a willing bride. But surely not every eligible woman here was accompanied by so sharp a mother…

Perhaps it would be easier to pick one off when they were entering the ball, rather than when already here. Yes, that was a good idea.

Arthur strode past the smoking room, one of the three card rooms that looked absolutely packed, and exchanged a wink with Lord Glenarm, a stout and flushed fellow who appeared bored to tears in the company of the lean and square-jawed Lord Zouch. Poor man. He couldn’t help being so dull. Probably.

The cold, night air was refreshing and Arthur looked along the long street to catch a glimpse of those who were arriving. Lady Romeril only invited the very best, as ever, but there were always a few people who managed to find their way onto the guest list precisely because they would cause a stir.

Like himself, for example.

One carriage caught his eye. It was resplendent, unmistakably repainted recently and with feathered plumes on the horses’ heads, which looked ridiculous.

It also, however, had a russet-and-gold crest painted on the doors.

Something jolted in Arthur’s stomach as the memory of what that livery meant soared into his mind.

Of course. The Chance family.

Not a family he knew well. The Chances were far too prim and proper to have anything to do with the house of Taernsby. Especially not a reprobate like himself.

But there were several young ladies now of eligible age in that family, were there not?

Well, any one of them would do. It wouldn’t make much difference which one it was. One lady was much the same as another.

Arthur watched with amusement as the footmen in Lady Romeril’s livery hastened to the carriage. Evidently this was an eagerly anticipated arrival.

He moved quietly, his black, almost-midnight jacket making him invisible in the night air. Standing right beside the door, he waited to see which one would emerge. Not that he knew all their names, as there were far too many of them.

Would she be pretty? Would it matter?

Arthur made sure not to investigate that particular thought. He didn’t have the luxury of hoping for a pretty one. A Chance bride with a Chance fortune and the Chance fertility would be more than enough.

The door opened. An elegant swish of skirts emerged.

Well, he liked what he saw so far. This was a woman with taste, the gray-pearl silver of the gown the height of fashion. And she—

She was stunning.

Arthur’s chest heaved painfully as his pulse skipped a beat. Dear God, he hadn’t known they made women like that anymore. Tall, and refined, and elegant, with a serious expression twisting her mouth and her eyes focused on—

She was falling.

Arthur did not think. He did not have to think. His instincts forced him forward before any of the waiting footmen seemed to notice that something was amiss.

Her gasp blossomed into the night air like a rose and Arthur caught her, his arms wrapping around her and pulling the Chance woman close to him.

And he kept her there. Somehow, time had ceased, stalling like a clock yet to be wound. Arthur looked down into the face that had so easily captivated him.

Saints alive, the woman must know how devastatingly arresting she is, mustn’t she?

Her lips parted, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed, and Arthur fought back the instinct to kiss her immediately and mark her as his own. This had to be done properly. At least, as properly as a rake from the Taernsby family could ever manage.

“Well,” he said, ensuring his voice was pitched low, suggesting intimacy and connection from the start. “I suppose we will just have to get married, then.”

It was not one of his best lines, but Arthur was rather proud of it, considering he’d had but a heartbeat to think.

She gazed up, lips still parted, and Arthur started to lower his head, welcoming the invitation. Oh, it would be sweet, indeed, to taste those plump—

A hand, a fist, a blazing shot of heat then pain.

“Dear God!”

Arthur almost dropped her, the surprise was so startling. For a moment, he could hardly understand what had happened, until he saw the woman shake her left hand. Her left fist.

The woman had —punched him .

“Release me, you dog!” she said sharply. “Unhand me at once!”

Unable to disobey her order, Arthur found himself righting her then stepping back. The sudden absence of her in his arms was painful, though arguably not as painful as the stinging mark on his cheek.

Heavens, she was going to leave a bruise. On him !

“Absolutely outrageous,” the woman was muttering, smoothing her skirts with shaking hands. “Never expected anything so despicable.”

Arthur stared, mouth open.

He couldn’t help it. Well, he was hardly one of the best catches in the whole of the ton , but damnit, he came from a good family. Well, a good family that had fallen on hard times and even worse morals. But still. He was of the Taernsby line! He was a Nelson!

Moreover, he was good-looking. He knew it, had known it for years, ever since he had gone up to Cambridge and discovered that though his studies were dull, his provost’s daughter had been far more interesting. And she had been interested in him. They all had been, all the ladies he’d encountered ever since. They liked his broad frame, the sharp edge of his cheekbones, the way he knew precisely what to say and how to touch…

But this woman— this woman, whom he had just rescued, for want of a better word, from a fate worse than death, for falling flat on one’s face outside Lady Romeril’s ball would undoubtedly end one’s reputation… she had not flushed, or simpered, or even smiled.

The hussy had punched him in the face!

“I think perhaps you misheard me,” Arthur heard himself saying, his voice still low and sweet and shadowy. “I said that I suppose we will just have to get married—”

“Absolutely not,” the woman said sharply, taking a step away but not retreating.

Arthur stared, a frown creasing his forehead.

Well, that was rare. It was not often that he could be completely astonished. He had encountered most of what he considered possible in Society, and some of it more than once—but never before had a woman been so absolutely determined to reject him in every way possible!

He twisted his jaw, the ache in his cheek now throbbing up his temple. And the woman had a left hook that could have felled a lesser man.

Dear God, who is this woman?

“Lil?” Another woman, older and most definitely the younger’s mother, was now emerging from the carriage. “Is anything am-miss?”

Ah, this must be Florence Chance. Arthur found himself relaxing, the tension that had sparked in his shoulder blades slowly receding. The shyest of the Chance matriarchs, from the little he had heard about them. It would not be too difficult to charm such a genteel lady.

“S-Step away from m-my daughter, or feel m-my wrath!” stammered the woman, stepping forward with her fists raised.

Arthur took a hasty step back. What on earth was going on? Wasn’t the Chance family upstanding, respectable?

“I am quite all right, Mama. Please do not worry yourself,” the young woman was saying.

“Lilianna, y-you almost fell!”

“But I did not fall, Mama, and I am quite well, I assure you.”

Arthur stared, transfixed, at the exchange. Clearly, the mother, who though she must be nearing her fifties was still stunningly handsome, needed to be placated.

So this was Florence Chance, the Marchioness of Aylesbury? But wasn’t she timid? At least, the gossip had always said so. Her manner of speech seemed to indicate she would be. So why was she acting as much a tigress as her daughter?

“This gentleman is just leaving,” the woman who had to be Lady Lilianna Chance said coldly. “He has no further business with us.”

And in that instant, something cracked open Arthur’s heart and incited a flame he had never felt before.

He had never seen a woman more magnificent. More imperial, more imperious! She issued orders to a perfect stranger as though she had been obeyed all her life, and what was more, deserved to be.

Paired with a face like that, and a body he had felt pressed against his that had flared heat through his loins…

Arthur grinned. Well, what do you know? It wasn’t falling in love, certainly, but it was more than lust. And that was all he needed. “Lady Lilianna, I think you should reconsider my proposal.”

He had expected her to smile. He had expected her to flush. He had expected her to at the very least be polite.

Lady Lilianna snorted. “‘Proposal’? Don’t make me laugh, sir. Your arrogance does not suit you.”

Some of his confidence melted into irritation. “You are very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Lady Lil—”

“And you are very presumptuous, whoever you are, to address me before we have been introduced.” Lady Lilianna looked him up and down with a blatant review. “And perhaps even then.”

Arthur’s mouth fell open. The ego of the woman! Could she not see that he was one of the most handsome men in the ton ?

Perhaps it was too dark out here. Yes, that had to be it. Well, it did not matter. As soon as she was inside and saw the man she was treating so abominably, perhaps she would change her tune.

“You do not interest me. Go away,” said Lady Lilianna carelessly, slipping a hand into the crook of her mother’s arm and walking away.

Walking away. From him.

The entire world faded into the background. There was only him and Lady Lilianna Chance. The woman he would marry, come what may.

Almost stumbling over his own feet this time, Arthur hastened after them. He must have been standing there dumbstruck for quite a while, for when he entered the atrium of Lady Romeril’s home, the two Chance women had already been divested of their pelisses and entered the ballroom.

Arthur grinned to himself. All the better. They would be able to see him clearly there, and he could turn on the charm and get Lady Lilianna Chance underneath him in three hours. Perhaps two, if he was lucky. There had to be copious bedchambers here.

He would ensure to be caught, scandal would abound, and they would be announcing their betrothal before the week was over.

“If you are following me in some pathetic attempt to attract my attention, please know that I am addressing you out of pity and nothing else.”

Arthur’s words caught in his throat.

Lady Lilianna was looking at him like…

Like he was nothing. Like he did not belong there. Like there was nothing more irritating to her than his presence.

And the fire that had always forced Arthur forward, always ensured he was in the center of the trouble and victorious in every fight, spurred him to speak. “Lady Lilianna, you appear to be under the misapprehension that I—”

“I honestly do not care,” she said lightly, giving her mother what appeared to be a warning look. “Please go away and bother someone else.”

Arthur stepped forward, stepped closer—far too close.

As Lady Aylesbury gasped in horror, Lady Lilianna merely held his gaze. “You are bold, sir.”

“I am bold. Because I know what I want,” Arthur said quietly, fully conscious the entre ballroom was staring at them now. Well, let them look . They could all say that they were there when the Earl of Taernsby and his future countess first met. “And I want you, Lady Lilianna. Now. Marry me.”

She snorted. It was not a very nice snort, and it was not the sort of response any man wanted to a proposal. Especially now he had done so, from his count, three times.

“You may be bold, yes, but I know what I am worth,” said Lady Lilianna. Instead of lowering her voice and trying to keep their conversation private, as so many other women would, she had instead raised it.

Well, two could play that game.

“Oh, really?” Arthur arched a brow and leaned forward. Gasps rang out around them. “And what is that?”

“More than a random stranger who does not have the manners to wait for an introduction,” she shot back.

Delight warmed Arthur’s torso. Oh, this woman. He was going to enjoy bedding her. “In that case, I am elated to inform you that I am an earl.”

A flicker of doubt in her eyes, a softening of her shoulders. Lady Lilianna had let go of her mother now and had squared up to him, but she suddenly seemed conscious that she was standing almost nose to nose with a complete stranger.

Not for long.

“The Earl,” Arthur said grandly, “of Taernsby!”

He did not receive the reaction he’d expected.

Lady Lilianna laughed. Laughed. At him. Loudly, and in public. At Lady Romeril’s ball.

“Taernsby? So you’re a Nelson. Not a very impressive family, nothing to the Chances. Yes, the Nelsons, I’ve heard of you. That would make you the notorious rake,” she said dismissively. “Such a shame. You were almost starting to interest me.”

His heart sank. “But—”

“I said before and I shall say it again, and I really don’t expect to have to say it a third time,” Lady Lilianna said serenely, as though she declined proposals from earls every day of the week. “I know what I am worth, my lord, and you… you are not it.”

She swept away, her mother sending him an ice-cold look before following after her.

It took Arthur a few heartbeats and a jagged breath wrenched from his lungs to realize the marquess’s daughter was not coming back.

Lady Lilianna Chance, the first woman he had ever met to match him in wits and sarcasm, was… gone.

Whispers were echoing around the ballroom, growing louder as more and more people started to discuss the scene they had just witnessed.

Arthur ensured to hold his head high. Well, first point to Lady Lilianna, he had to admit—but it would be the last.

He would have her.