Her Officer and Gentleman (5 page)

Beatrice must have caught Beth’s regret, for she said quickly, “Beth, don’t even think—” She snapped her feathered fan closed with a great display of firmness. “My lord, as Lady Elizabeth’s chaperone, I fear I must cut this conversation until the proper introductions have been performed.” With that, she gave the man a regal nod, took
Beth by the elbow, and hauled her toward the refreshment tables.

“Really, Beth!” Beatrice muttered. “You owe me for that little maneuver. Had I not troubled myself, you would have ruined your own scheme.”

“I would not have,” Beth protested, though her own voice rang hollowly in her ears. She glanced over her shoulder. The viscount was standing as they’d left him, one hand negligently on his hip, his eyes on her, a glimmer of humor touching his sensual mouth.

Hesitantly, Beth returned his smile.

His reaction was instantaneous; his entire face lit with an answering grin. Beth’s breath caught at the warmth of it. What was it about this man that made him so different from every other man in the room? He was so…present. So powerful. Every inch of him emanated purpose, capability, and a barely contained passion. He was arrogant and impetuous, proud and unrepentant. She could read all of that and more in his expression, and she found herself fascinated as never before.

Beatrice pulled Beth to the other side of the refreshment table. “Safe at last!” Beatrice glanced back the way they’d come. “Good. Lady Cumberland is approaching him now and will soon have him locked in conversation. She’s not one to let a handsome rake out of her sight once she’s captured him, so we needn’t fear he’ll follow us.”

Beth stood on tiptoe. Beatrice was right; Lady Cumberland was indeed talking to Westerville, her hand laid possessively on his arm. “What is she doing, leaning against him like that?”

“She leans against every man she talks to.”

“I know. It’s just that—oh! If her décolletage was any lower, she’d spill out.” Beth scowled. “How can she display herself in such a way? I would never—”

“Good God,” Beatrice said, her voice stunned. “You cannot be attracted to that man!”

Beth reluctantly tore her gaze from the viscount. “Attracted? Who said anything about attracted?”

“I can see it in your face. You had best leave that stone unturned. Westerville may be a viscount, but his position is very smoky, and it is said that he has not truly secured the fortune, either. In fact, there are rumors that he—” Beatrice pressed her mouth in a firm line. “Never mind.”

“What rumors?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing at all. I-I was just mumbling off the top of my head.”

“You might as well tell me all you know now, for I’ll wheedle it out of you before tomorrow, anyway. You never could keep a secret.”

Beatrice sighed. “I know, I know! But only if you’ll promise me you are not attracted to that man. Your grandfather would kill me.”

“I am not attracted to Lord Westerville.” It was more than attraction. It was a reckoning of some sort. “As for Grandfather, it is none of his concern what I do.”

Beatrice sent Beth a flat stare.

Beth wished her cousin didn’t know Grandfather quite so well. “Oh, very well. Grandfather
would
be concerned.” Beth glanced back at the viscount and wondered if this was how Grandfather
had felt upon seeing his future wife that first time.

The thought sent her heart thundering. She might be intrigued, but she was
not
in love, which was what Grandfather had been.

“What a coil,” Beatrice said, shaking her head. “Beth, there is something between the two of you. Even I felt it, and I wasn’t trying to feel anything, especially not
that.
”

Beth glanced across the table toward the viscount. He’d bent down to listen to something Lady Cumberland had to say, her red curls a perfect foil for his black hair.

Beth’s heart ached inexplicably. Perhaps what she felt was a simple physical reaction. She watched him a moment more, resentment rising. Shouldn’t she at least investigate this odd feeling? Make certain it was nothing more than a physical attraction?

“Beth, please don’t do anything rash.”

Beth blinked at her cousin. “What makes you think I’m going to do anything at all?”

“I have known you since you were born and I can see from your expression that you’ve some scheme in mind. That’s the same expression you wore that time you convinced me to stand watch so you could steal one of your grandfather’s new geldings—”

“Borrow,” Beth said, grinning a little. “We were going to return the horse, weren’t we? Technically, that is not stealing.”

“Grandfather didn’t see it as ‘borrowing.’ Especially after that wild horse threw you. Lud, but
I just knew you were quite dead. You’re lucky you didn’t hit your head upon a rock. And your grandfather—” Beatrice shivered.

“He’s always upset about something.”

“My point exactly! I see enough of his irritation as it is. I have no wish to experience more.” Beatrice met Beth’s gaze. “Whatever you are thinking, I want your word you will forget about it this very instant.”

Beth almost refused. But then she caught sight of the arrogant Comte Villiers bearing down on them. If she did not maintain her pretense, she could very well end up shackled to a man like the comte. The thought was sobering, to say the last.

She gave one last, regretful glance at the handsome viscount. From across the room, his gaze locked with hers over Lady Cumberland’s head.

It was the hardest thing Beth had ever done, but she fought the very real impulse to just throw convention to the winds and walk toward him. Gathering her errant thoughts, she turned away, presenting him with her shoulder as she managed a smile for her cousin. “Very well. I promise to have nothing more to do with the viscount.”

Beatrice shook her head, a comical expression of dismay on her face as she glanced at the viscount herself. “The problem is that I don’t really blame you. He is quite handsome, and the fact that they say he’s a—” Beatrice sent a quick glance at Beth, then looked away.

“A what?”

Beatrice sighed. “Oh, you are right; you would
get it out of me sooner or later anyway. Before he inherited his title, Westerville was a lost soul of some sort, wandering about. His mother died in gaol, accused of treason, and his father was the Earl of Rochester, though the man never claimed him. Even more shocking, upon his deathbed, the earl suddenly
remembered
that he’d really married Westerville’s mother and produced two now legitimate children.”

“Surely no one believes such a story!”

“No one has been able to disprove it. The earl produced documents and a witness, even a priest who swears he performed the ceremony.”

“No!”

“Oh yes! What’s even more fascinating, though, is where the viscount spent the years when he was not a viscount.” Beatrice’s voice lowered to a delicious level. “They say he was a highwayman!”

“What?” Beth looked at Westerville. He was talking to yet another woman, this one a brunette with sapphires sparkling in her hair. He was bent low to catch her words over the music, his dark hair falling over his brow. Though he was quite easily the most fashionably dressed man in the room, there was still an air about him…something raw and untamed. She shivered. “I could see him as a highwayman.”

Beatrice nodded. “So could I. They also say—oh, blast! There is the comte. Pray stutter to your utmost ability. I cannot bear to be near that man!”

Beth grimaced. “He is a pompous ass.”

“And in dire need of a wealthy wife. Perhaps
you should find a twitch to go with your stutter.”

“I would fall upon the floor in a fit if I thought it might do some good. The man is a menace.”

The comte was upon them before Beatrice could respond. Beth spent the next several moments stuttering out answers and trying not to giggle at Beatrice’s broad hints to the man that Beth’s stutter was the very
least
of her problems.

During this time, it took quite a bit of Beth’s self-possession not to look in the viscount’s direction. She had to acknowledge that the man was a danger, but one easily avoided.

Finally, Lady Clearmont appeared from the card room, her reticule noticeably thinner as she shooed away the comte. Beth was more than ready to leave. She made arrangements to meet Beatrice the next morning and was soon in Lady Clearmont’s carriage.

Soon enough, she and Lady Clearmont arrived at the Massingale London House, where Beth bid Her Ladyship a good night before making her way to her bedchamber. There she undressed with haste, brushed her hair, pulled on her night rail, slid between the cool sheets, and blew out the candles. Only then, in the total darkness, did Beth allow herself to contemplate in uninterrupted splendor the devastating effect of a pair of thickly lashed green eyes and a charmingly lopsided smile.

H
ours later, Christian returned home quite content with the evening’s work. He’d been very aware of the lady’s eyes on him throughout the evening. One thing he knew about human nature was that people coveted what other people admired. And so, after Lady Elizabeth’s chaperone had swept her to safety, Christian made certain she witnessed him flirting with a number of other women. He didn’t care who they were—tall or short, fat or thin, handsome or comely—none of them could hold a candle to Elizabeth, a fact he found far too disturbing.

He met Reeves in the entry upon his arrival. Christian allowed the butler to remove his coat. “Good evening, Reeves!”

“It is well after midnight, my lord. ‘Good morning’ would be more appropriate.”

“It is almost three, to be exact. So good morning, ’tis.”

Reeves handed the coat to a waiting footman and absently watched the man leave. As soon as the hallway was clear, Reeves turned back to Christian. “Will you retire at once, my lord? Or do you require some nourishment to assist you in recovering from your debauchery?”

Christian grinned. “I am not a bit hungry and I am far from sleepy. I believe I shall have a glass of port.”

“You have a constitution of iron, my lord,” the butler said in a dry voice.

“Thank you.” He turned on his heel and entered the library. “Any word from Willie?”

“Yes, my lord. There is a note on your desk.”

“Excellent.” Christian crossed to the desk. He picked up the missive and ripped it open.

Reeves followed closely, watching in respectful silence while Christian read.

“Good!” Christian tossed the note on a side table. He caught Reeves’s expression.

“I am sorry, my lord. I am just a bit astonished Master William can pen a letter.”

“I taught him. Quite a useful fellow is Willie.”

“I am certain, my lord.”

“He arrives tomorrow and with something of
note.” Christian nodded thoughtfully. “Our suspicions seem to have borne fruit.”

Reeves walked to the fireplace where a fire was already laid out. He removed the tinderbox from the mantel, and within moments, flames licked the new wood, a faint heat permeating the room.

As soon as the flue had been properly adjusted, the butler crossed to the sideboard and poured a measure of port into a glass, then brought it to Christian.

Christian gratefully took the glass, sank into a chair by the fireplace, and took a long drink. The amber liquid burned pleasantly. “This is excellent stock. Almost as good as a shipment I once stole from an Italian count outside Bath.”

“Please, my lord. Do not mention those times.”

Christian flashed a grin. “I shall try not to.”

“Thank you, my lord. Just where is this port that you, ah,
procured
?”

“I drank it.”

Reeves looked offended. “By yourself?”

Christian considered this. “Well, yes. Most of it.”

Reeves sighed. “There are times when you are very much like your father.”

Christian’s good humor fled. “I will thank you not to mention him. At least not until I’ve had time to put a bottle or two of this behind me.”

The butler bowed and wisely made no further comment. Christian’s jaw ached and he realized he was clenching his teeth. His father, the late Earl of Rochester, had never acknowledged either
Christian or his twin brother. Oh, he’d sent the requisite stipend to cover expenses, but that was all.

Worse, when Mother had been falsely imprisoned, Christian and his brother had written their father begging him to intervene; there had been no answer. Eventually, when they had been reduced to rags, their tutor had sold the two boys to a press gang. Tristan had assisted his younger twin brother in escaping, but had not been so fortunate himself. Tristan had ended up consigned to sea. Eventually, after enduring beatings and worse, he’d come to love his new life at sea, though not for many painful years.

Christian, meanwhile, had been left truly alone. Only ten and frightened beyond reason, he had slowly made his way to London. It had taken weeks and he’d nearly starved to death in the process, until he’d learned the trick to taking what he needed. But when he arrived at the prison, he discovered his mother had died only days before, a victim to a horrid fever caused by her squalid living conditions. Alone, living in the streets, Christian had been forced to fight every day in an effort to merely survive to the next.

Odd as it was, even in those desperate hours, every night he’d dreamed of Father arriving in time to save him, to save his brother, and especially to save Mother. Morning after morning, he’d awakened to find his dreams just that—dreams and nothing more.

Christian caught the butler’s gaze now. “Never again compare me to my father. I will not be insulted in my own house.”

Reeves sighed deeply. “I can understand why you would harbor ill feelings toward your father, but he did care for you and your brother, in his way.”

“His way is too little, too late.”

“Very true, my lord. Your father was not a responsible parent in many aspects. Nor was he as caring as he should have been. But you cannot hold him responsible for your mother’s death. He was out of the country and was unaware of her predicament.”

“Had he cared, he would have made certain she could reach him. That
we
could reach him.”

“The late earl had many, many faults. I cannot defend him as a parent, for he failed so miserably. However, he
did
know what was due his title and name. I think you should learn the same. It will help you secure the fortune from the trustees.”

“I have already met the trustees, and they were duly impressed with my elegant manner and tonnish ways,” Christian said a bit bitterly. “They are a pack of fools, the lot of them, impressed with the fold of one’s cravat over one’s character. Providing I do not make a total cake of myself, they will approve the release of the fortune.”

“I hope you are right, my lord. I fear your assessment of the trustees is painfully accurate. Your father’s cronies were not, perhaps, the best choice to oversee the disbursement of his funds.”

Yet another example of Father’s innate selfishness, to foist such silly conditions upon his will. The titles were Tristan’s and his to keep no matter
what, but the fortunes were tied up upon the approval of the trustees.

It irked Christian to have to deal with such weak men. Not a one of them would have lived more than a day had they been forced to take care of themselves. Christian, on the other hand, had honed his abilities. He had also developed a hard shell where his heart had once been. In a way, his father had done him a favor by staying away. Life was a hard teacher, but a thorough one.

Christian supposed he should be thankful for Father’s unexpected change of heart. At an advanced age, the late earl had married a young woman in the hopes of producing some heirs, but no issue was forthcoming. The thought of seeing his title and funds dispensed to distant relatives had been too much for the man’s overly stiff pride, so he’d deftly fabricated documents and found a “witness” to attest to a supposedly secret marriage between him and Christian’s mother. In this way, the earl had secured the family lineage through the children he’d so far successfully ignored—his illegitimate sons.

However, as both boys had been left unattended since the delicate age of ten, the earl feared that they did not possess the social skills necessary to maintain a place in society without garnering the ridicule of the ton. And that was something the earl would not countenance. So Reeves, the earl’s most loyal servant, was sent with a packet full of money and instructions to civilize Christian and his brother.

Christian hated the trustees and despised being
forced to become a part of their hypocrisy. Unfortunately, he needed his father’s fortune, and not just for himself. His brother, Tristan, was counting on him as well.

As the oldest son, Tristan had inherited Father’s title but none of the trustees would have approved Tristan’s choice of wife. By virtue of the circumstances of her first husband’s death, Prudence had been involved in a horrid scandal that had precluded her from ever being considered an acceptable countess.

Thus, Tristan had handed the fortune on to Christian, secure in the belief that his brother would win it for them both. This added responsibility had put quite a crimp in Christian’s plans. Now he was forced to play by societal rules.

Reeves seemed to catch Christian’s thinking, for he smiled slightly. “Never have I seen a man more happy to give up a fortune than your brother.”

“I promised to fund his home for injured sailors. I cannot let him down.” Christian managed a faint smile. “It was the least I could do. I would have given him more had he allowed it.”

“He was quite happy at the way things turned out.” The butler paused a moment. “Perhaps you’ll find a Lady Prudence of your own, my lord. That would be quite the thing indeed.”

The last thing Christian wanted or needed was a wife. He’d lived an unencumbered life, drifting from inn to inn, taking what he needed to survive and no more. The moment things became complicated, he moved on. As soon as he was
done here and had exacted his revenge, he would leave once more.

Perhaps he would ride to Scotland with his servant, Willie, to see the countryside there, swords drawn in the dark of night, blood quickening in excitement. Christian rubbed his fingers together where they itched for the smooth cool feel of his rapier.

Soon. Once he was finished here…He looked at his glass. “Thank you for the port, Reeves. It was just the thing.”

“I took the liberty of having some of the late earl’s carefully guarded stock brought here, for your pleasure. Your brother insisted on it.”

Christian looked at his glass. His brother was even now residing in a snug cottage on the cliff overlooking the seas in Dover, his wife at his side. Christian had faced enough aching loneliness to appreciate the need for companionship.

But love? True love? As wretched as loneliness could be, it was nothing compared to the pain of betrayal. He’d seen with his own eyes what “love” did to a person—how it built hopes that were rarely, if ever, realized. Falling in love meant being weak, vulnerable to the whims of another. He’d watched his beautiful, confident, strong mother become frail and maudlin, watched her allow events to manipulate her until she was stripped of everything, thrown into jail, branded a traitor.

Christian took a slow sip of port. He would be damned if he ever let anyone get close enough to make him vulnerable.

Reeves looked at the clock as it chimed. “I fear it is getting late. Shall I have your bed turned down?”

“In a moment.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Christian took another drink. “Reeves, you are the best of all butlers.”

“You sound as though you’ve experienced quite a few, my lord. May I ask how that is, considering that you once resided in an inn?”

Christian grinned, “Not all of the women in those coaches were content with a mere kiss. I daresay I’ve been in half the boudoirs in London.”

Reeves looked pointedly at the ceiling.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, my lord. You said you did not wish me to state when you say things that remind me of your father, so—”

“Very well,” Christian snapped. He shifted restlessly, rubbing his fingers together yet again.

“Yes, my lord.” Reeves made his way to the sidebar again, this time returning with a small wooden box. He opened it to reveal several thin, rolled cigars. “My lord? I procured these this morning while at the market.”

Christian selected a cigar, a fragrant scent wafting up as he rolled it between his fingers. “Thank you for reading my mind once again.”

“That is not a very difficult feat when one realizes your mind possesses such magnificent thoughts as ‘I need a drink,’ ‘A good cigar would be nice,’ and ‘I wonder if Lady Bertram is wearing that silk chemise trimmed with little flowers.’”

Christian slowly turned his gaze on the butler. “I beg your pardon? What was that last one?”

Reeves pursed his lips. “The last what, my lord?”

“The last statement you made.”

“After ‘A good cigar would be nice’?”

“Yes,” Christian said grimly.

“Hm. Let me see. I believe I said, ‘I wonder if Lady Bertram is wearing that silk chemise with the little flowers.’”

“How do you know about Lady Bertram?”

Reeves reached into his coat and produced a small, folded swath of silk. “Her Ladyship’s chemise. It has her name monogrammed upon the hem. I found it beneath the seat of your carriage and had it washed. I thought perhaps you might wish to return it when, of course, Lord Bertram is once again out of town.”

Christian took the chemise and tossed it onto the table beside him. “Thank you, Reeves,” he said dryly. “I appreciate your efforts.”

“It was nothing, my lord. May I ask if you succeeded in your efforts this evening?”

“Perfectly.” Christian looked into his glass, noting the firelight sparkling on the amber liquid. “When I find the information I seek…it will be my finest hour.”

“Yes, it does add a certain panache to one’s life, does it not, seducing an innocent woman?”

Christian choked on the port.

Reeves stepped forward and delivered a solid thwack on Christian’s back.

“Ouch!” Christian rubbed his back, glaring at Reeves.

Reeves picked up the decanter he’d left on the small table and calmly returned it to the sideboard. “I was merely attempting to clear your mind a bit, my lord.”

“Clear my mind? Why would you think I need such a thing?”

Reeves raised his brows.

“I don’t need your help.” Christian held his cigar between his teeth, though he made no move to light it. “For the love of Zeus, Reeves, if you’ve something to say, just say it.”

Reeves sniffed. “There is no need for such a tone, my lord.”

Christian scowled.

“Do not worry, my lord. I shall keep my ruminations to myself, as befitting a man of my station. Far be it from me to infringe upon Your Lordship’s existence with meaningless comments that you obviously do not wish to hear.”