For All Eternity (9 page)

He grasped her upper arms and pushed her away. Holding her at arm’s length, he growled, “It is very much here and now. It just so happens that I, too, am financially embarrassed.”

Sophie shook her head over and over again, unable to fathom the sudden harshness of his face. “We’ll scratch by somehow,” she reassured him, certain that his expression stemmed from shock. “With careful management of your income, we should be able to discharge our debts in a few years’ time. Of course, that means we shall probably have to live on your estate.”

He stared at her as if she’d lost her wits, then snorted and released her arms with a shove. “I don’t want to scratch by, and I most certainly have no intention of rusticating in Lincolnshire for the next few years.” “What does it matter where we live or how modestly as long as we’re together?” she appealed, unwilling to believe that he meant his words. “Our love will see us through.”

“Love?” He released a bitter grate of laughter. “Love had nothing to do with my desire to marry you.”

“But you said that you loved me,” she cried. “You vowed that you’d do anything for that love.”

“Pretty words, nothing more. The same empty ones every man uses to hook a rich wife.” He folded his arms over his chest and eyed her with visible scorn. “If you actually believed the flowery phrases men whispered in your ear all Season, then you’re a bigger fool than I imagined.”

Sophie returned his gaze, tears welling up in her eyes. “You don’t love me?” she choked out, feeling as if her heart were being ripped from her chest.

“You might be a fool, but at least you learn quickly,” he snapped. “No. I don’t love you. I never did, though had you the dowry you claimed, I’d have gladly wed you. You are, after all, a most beautiful woman, and I desired you from the moment I saw you.”

He cocked his head to one side then, viewing her thoughtfully. “In truth, I desire you still. Hmm. Perhaps I can help you after all. Yes — ” he nodded ” — I believe I can. You have only to agree to be my mistress, and I shall arrange it so that your creditors will never find you.”

She gasped her indignation. “Your mistress? Why … why … that’s …”

“Most generous of me,” he interjected, reaching out to trail a finger down the slope of her breast. “Just think, my dear. Not only will you be spared the horrors of prison, you shall have the pleasure of my intimate attentions. Since you profess to love me so, that prospect should please you immensely.”

Sophie slapped away his hand, more affronted than she’d ever been in her life. “How dare you insult me in such a manner.”

He laughed. “Come, come, now, dearest. Don’t think of it as an insult, but as a rescue.”

“I would rather marry Lyndhurst than enter into such a — a — an indecent arrangement,” she flung back, and it was true.

“Perhaps, but I’m afraid that marriage to Lyndhurst is an option you no longer possess.”

“Of course it is. I’m officially engaged to him. By this evening everyone in London will know of our betrothal.”

“By this evening everyone in London will know of your visit here, and of your uncle’s hoax. I can assure you that neither the ton nor Lyndhurst will look kindly upon being played for a fool.”

She gaped at him, stunned by his threat. “You wouldn’t!”

“Indeed I would. You see, my dear. Though I shan’t marry you, I do want you in my bed. Very much so.”

He smiled with a ruthlessness she’d never have believed he possessed. “And what I want, I always get.”

Hating him with every fiber of her being, she spat, “Not this time. I shall deny your allegations with every breath in my body. It shall be your word against mine.” “Yours against mine and Somerville’s,” he reminded her. “No doubt I shall be able to persuade Hucknell and Dumont to take my part as well. That’s four against one.”

“You’re despicable,” she hissed, impotent to do more. “I can’t imagine how I could ever have thought you kind and noble.”

“I’ve already told you how: You’re a fool.”

Wishing that looks could kill, she fixed him with her most murderous glare and shot back, “I may be a fool, but I’m not a harlot. You shall never have me for your mistress. Never!”

He smirked. “Watch me.”

Chapter 5

It had been a most satisfying day indeed.

Having spent the entire afternoon writing his parents and relatives of his upcoming marriage, Nicholas now traveled the short distance to his club to trumpet his triumph to his fellow clubmen. It was a moment to which he’d looked forward almost from the instant he clapped eyes on Miss Barrington, a victory that would make him the envy of every bachelor in the ton.

He smiled at that last as his carriage pulled to a stop in front of White’s. Unlike his parents, who would be thrilled by the news of his engagement, his peers would greet them with hisses and groans of disappointment. As they always did in such situations, they would then proceed to call him every insulting name in the book — jokingly, of course! — after which they would clap him on the back and toast his happiness until they were all quite foxed.

It would be the perfect ending to a perfect day.

Ready to burst with excitement, Nicholas peered out the window and tried to gauge the crowd at the club. By the number of men loitering on the walkway and the long queue of coaches lining the street, it was clear that there was a crush inside.

His smile broadened into a grin. Excellent! The more in attendance, the more to hear his splendid news. His excitement mounting another degree, he stepped from the coach. The instant his feet touched the ground, the men on the walkway fell silent and eyed him in the queerest of manners. Several of them even raised their quizzing glasses.

Taken aback, Nicholas froze mid-step. Whatever possessed them? He hadn’t seen them stare at him in such a — critical? — yes, critical fashion since his scapegrace brother had gotten foxed and ridden down Park Lane with his bare buttocks hanging out —

His brother! Of course. He almost groaned aloud. As cup-shot as Quentin was at the Stuckely’s
soiree
last night, he wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that he had done something utterly disgraceful. And as they were wont to do, his peers no doubt blamed him for not keeping a tighter rein on the scoundrel.

Promising to find his madcap sibling and take him to task for whatever he’d done this time, Nicholas strode forward, nodding cordially as he went. At his approach several of the men nudged their neighbor and exchanged wide-eyed looks that were nothing short of incredulous.

Wondering at the punishment for murdering one’s own brother, he mounted the stairs and stepped through the punctually opened front door. It was only after he’d handed his hat and walking stick to the waiting footman, and the servant had walked away that he allowed himself to sigh his exasperation. Quentin was clearly in the basket this time.

Dreading yet determined to learn the scope of his brother’s infamy, he stalked down the hall, his steps faltering as he neared the salon where he and his peers assembled nightly. After pausing to brace himself for what would no doubt prove an arduous ordeal, he squared his shoulders and entered the room. As he did so the men nearest the door fell silent, all gaping at him as if stunned.

Forcing himself to smile, Nicholas nodded politely and glanced down the line of dumbstruck faces, seeking an ally among them. Frensham … Rivell … Clendon … Randolph …

Randolph, yes. His old school chum from Cambridge. Recalling that his lordship was always flush with the latest gossip, compliments of his prattlebox wife, Sarah, he approached the man, murmuring, “Randolph. Good to see you.”

By the pained look on his lordship’s narrow face, you’d have thought that he’d slugged him in the belly rather than tendered a greeting. After several beats during which his mouth opened and closed like a ground mackerel, Randolph gathered his wits and croaked, “Uh, Lyndhurst … uh … fancy seeing you here.”

Nicholas felt as gut-punched as his friend looked, though he tried hard not to show it. How very unlike the imperturbable Randolph to act so — so, well, perturbed. Whatever Quentin had done, it must be wicked beyond imagining.

Wishing his brother were there so he could wring his worthless neck, he coolly pointed out, “In case it’s escaped your notice, I’ve been here every evening at precisely this time since the start of the Season.”

“True, but we all thought that … a-hem! … well, with Miss Barrington …” He broke off, eyebrows raised in a confidential manner, clearly assuming that Nicholas knew exactly what he meant.

Miss Barrington? Nicholas frowned, momentarily nonplussed. Then enlightenment dawned, and it was all he could do to refrain from laughing out loud.

Ah. But of course. Sophie’s cousin must have been there earlier and delivered the news of his engagement. That meant that this queerness was most probably some sort of joke aimed at punishing him for snatching up the Season’s prize.

His suspicions were further confirmed when he noted that the room was now completely silent and that the other men inched forward, visibly straining to catch his response. Judging it high time to call their bluff, he said loud enough to be heard by all, “I hardly see how my engagement to Miss Barrington would curtail my visits here. Indeed, you should have guessed that I would come to share the grand news.” There. That should end their ruse.

They merely gawked at him.

Wondering exactly what they wanted him to say or do, he grinned and tried again. “Yes, gentlemen. I’m afraid it’s true. Miss Barrington accepted my proposal this very morning. We’re to be wed in two weeks’ time.” Several jaws dropped, and in every direction he looked he was greeted with a confounding melange of expressions that ranged from pity to outright contempt. He even heard what sounded suspiciously like a snicker. In the next instant everyone started to whisper at once, their indecipherable exchanges buzzing around him like agitated bees. After several moments one of the gentlemen, Lord Bowton if he remembered correctly, stepped forward, and they hushed.

“Um … Lyndhurst,” he began, gazing at his companions as if seeking their sanction. When they nodded, he nervously looked at Nicholas and continued, “It appears that you haven’t heard — “

“Lyndhurst! Thank God!” someone interjected. “I went to your house, but your man told me you’d just left for here. I almost killed myself in my rush to catch you.” Recognizing the voice as that of his best friend, Freddie Priscott, Earl of Huntley, Nicholas turned. By the flush of his face and the way his black hair stood willy-nilly atop his head, it was evident that he hadn’t lied about the madness of his dash. Peering at Nicholas as if he’d suffered a death in the family, he murmured, “Good God, man. I’m so sorry. Are you quite all right?” Frustrated to the point of anger, Nicholas gritted out, “Huntley, will you please be so good as to tell me what the hell is going on around here?’

“You haven’t heard?” His friend more gasped than said the words.

“Apparently not,” he retorted as the buzz about him started anew.

“The devil you say! I thought everyone had heard.” “Everyone but me it seems,” he snapped. “And I do wish you would enlighten me.”

Motioning with his head for him to follow, Freddie led Nicholas down the hall to the less crowded library. Mercifully, the occupants of the cozy book-lined room were too engrossed in their newspapers to spare them more than a preoccupied nod.

After settling in facing wing chairs and ordering a bottle of the club’s finest brandy, Freddie turned his attention to Nicholas, his expression contrite. “I’m sorry, Lyndhurst. I should have come around to your house the instant I heard the gossip and made certain that you’d heard as well. It’s just that — ” he shook his head — “I assumed Quentin would tell you.”

“Quentin?” Nicholas made a derisive noise. “Just as I suspected, this has something to do with him. As for him telling me anything — ” he shrugged one shoulder — “you know well enough that we’re scarcely on speaking terms.”

“Yes. But being as the gossip is of a scandalous nature and involves you, I was certain he’d delight in telling you himself.”

“Not if by refraining from doing so he could make me look a fool, which, as you saw, he did quite admirably.” Nicholas made an impatient hand motion. “But enough about my plaguesome brother. Tell me of this scandal in which I’m purportedly involved.”

Freddie nodded somberly. “As you wish. But before I begin, I think it only fair to warn you that Oxley, Hucknell, and Dumont were here with Quentin, all bandying about the same tale and attesting to its truth.” “But of course. The Hell-born Four are as thick as thieves.” Emitting a contemptuous snort for emphasis, Nicholas crossed his arms over his chest and nodded for his friend to spill the bag. When he didn’t immediately comply, he prodded, “Well?”

Freddie returned his gaze for a moment, then ducked his head as if suddenly too embarrassed to look at him. “Ah, yes. Of course. It’s about — um — Miss Barrington.” “I gathered as much,” he retorted dryly. “Please do go on.”

“Well, uh — ” Freddie started to pick at his coat buttons, a sure sign that what he was about to say was very dreadful indeed. “Uh, by all accounts, Miss Barrington — um — visited them at their bachelor quarters this morning. Seems she’s madly in love with Oxley and went to beg him to flee with her to Gretna Green. Your brother claims to have witnessed the entire scene. More shocking yet, they all maintain that Oxley was wearing nothing but his — ahem! — dressing gown during the whole interview.”