Suzi Love (11 page)

“My ideal husband will be handsome but not conceited. Masculine yet tender. Intelligent yet not boorish.”

Becca considered her sister’s requirements. “I thought I wanted that too, but I’m wiser now.”

She’d renounced any notion of matrimony when caring for her siblings became her responsibility. She thought of Cayle. Strong, capable, able to help shoulder her burden and make her pulse race with a look. But that time hadn’t happened and now she worried more about two worried brothers threatening to renounce their studies and return home. And two sisters refusing a season in order to stay by her side.

“Deny it if you will, Becca, but Jamison blood runs hot in your veins. One day, you’ll meet a man who makes you burn.”

She scoffed at her sister’s unlikely fantasy. When Lord Bennett had deserted her in favour of Miss Johnston, who was more endowed both physically and financially, she’d been devastated. Oh, she’d attempted to hide it but her self-regard had suffered and beneath her bravado had been a deeper humiliation.

“I doubt such a paragon exists in the entire world,” Becca announced with dramatic flare.

“On the contrary,” Laura said, giving a huge grin. “Such a man prowled our drawing room this very morning. And he couldn’t drag his eyes from you.”

“Rubbish,” Becca muttered. “A new duke has no interest in a bluestocking like me. He may have his pick of beautiful women. Plus, blondes are fashionable. Not redheads.”

“Then there’s no reason for you to fear him. You don’t need to hide here this evening. Besides, who’ll chaperone us if you don’t attend?”

Laura smiled serenely but Becca wasn’t fooled.

“You’re coercing me into agreeing. Neither you nor Lottie need my protection. You can open any locked desk drawer faster than I can.”

“But I need you to distract our host. I almost got caught today examining papers that William Hardy left on his desk.”

Becca shivered. She dreaded the evening ahead. Yet she advocated that women adopt positive attitudes. She should heed her own advice.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Or so Aunt Aggie says.”

“Aunty uses that to prod us into attending boring recitals and suppers in the hope that some eligible aristocrat will become enthralled with us. With you, actually. You’re the eldest and should marry first.”

“Heaven forbid. I’d rather be boiled in oil than marry some hound obsessed country squire. Or a fortune hunting scoundrel. If our next railway ventures come to fruition, I’ll have enough money to travel.”

“But it may be years before you’re free to go.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Of course you mind. If not for rearing four siblings, you’d have set sail already on your adventures.”

“When Jonathon completes his studies, you and Lottie may already be married and Michael may have found a bride.”

“If Papa doesn’t leave Scotland before the snow sets in, another year will pass before we see him. Not that he’s any help. He barely notices us when he’s here.”

“I love being with my family. My turn will come soon enough.”

“Speaking about wanting, what are we to do about Sybila and what we thinks she wants?” Laura asked. “Or rather, who she wants.”

“We need to discover if, once more, she’s set her cap at Cayle. That’s the condition under which he agreed to help us, although I didn’t say that we suspect both Julia and Sybila. Not until we’re certain.”

“Cayle’s suffered enough through our horrid cousin. It was noble of him to refuse to duel with a viscount three times his age.”

“I can’t imagine why any man would fight over Sybila.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Laura observed. “Sybila trapped him. We all know how determined she is when she sets her sights on something.”

“I know only too well,” Becca agreed. “All those times our parents insisted we be nice to her. Sybila is conniving and manipulative.”

“You forgot demanding. Whatever Sybila wants she gets.”

“Those poor unsuspecting gentleman she flutters her eye lashes at are enticed into her web.”

“And when she thrusts her expansive bosom under their noses, they have no chance of escape.”

“Some of them are skirt chasers who deserve what they get.”

Laura smirked. “Does that include Cayle?”

“No, he didn’t deserve the way Sybila treated him. She ruined his life and showed no remorse when he left England.”

“I think things have changed now. Cayle is shrewd enough to take whatever he wants, get whatever he deserves.”

“What exactly do you think he deserves?”

Laura headed for the door, stopped, and said, “You, Becca. I think he deserves another chance with you. Wear your green gown. It matches your eyes. And Cayle remarked on their colour to Michael.”

Before Becca could protest the absurdity of that remark, her sister was gone. She doubted Cayle had said any such thing.

• • •

Becca’s old blue evening dress was perfectly suitable for tonight’s entertainment. She reached into the wardrobe. A tiny spot marred the sleeve of the blue gown. Her hand crept towards the green. She chose for practicality, nothing more.

Next to her sophisticated cousin, Becca felt gauche, naïve and inadequate. Her main asset, her intelligence, was ridiculed by her cousin, though Cayle had always appreciated her mathematical skills. Insisted that her preoccupation with statistics and calculations was perfectly normal for a young and titled lady. Enjoyed their debates over logic as much as she did.

While girls her age visited village shops, Cayle had ridden with her to Roman ruins and enacted dramas around fallen walls.

The Bank of England, Lloyd’s of London, The Exchange, in fact all the places she loved were considered a man’s domain. Forbidden for a mere woman. Something she kept hidden. Cayle had changed. Perhaps he’d also be shocked by her consuming involvement in share trading and manufacturing.

Yet, her deepest wish was to have someone to share everything with. And she so wanted to feel adequate for once.

She lifted the green dress out of the wardrobe.

At eight o’clock, Cayle waited in the foyer of Jamison House. The same insolent footman was eager to inform Cayle that Lady Rebecca hadn’t calmed down for an hour after their morning argument.

Becca would be furious but he could manage her. He’d matured. Grown. His ducal powers sat a little easier on his shoulders now.

He looked towards the upper level where the four Jamison women had begun their slow descent, hems of their gowns daintily lifted. The butler and the footman audibly gasped. His breath caught tightly in his chest before he hissed out a sound that was half stunned disbelief and half pure masculine admiration.

Instead of congratulating himself on how he’d tricked this prickly and prideful woman into attending the ball, he should have prepared himself for her aggressive response. Pride had spurred her to outfit her family in a fashionable manner. Resentment of his offer of monetary assistance had goaded her into going to extremes. Like a teasing mare that holds her tail high and prances before a stallion.

The women weren’t dressed in the pastels expected of blushing and stammering young ladies making their come out, but in rainbow-hued fabrics normally flaunted by lusty widows on the prowl or by courtesans with generous protectors. Their aunt, in deep plum with a plumed headdress to match, defied her middle years by descending with a lively, yet majestic, stride. Laura’s springing steps made the soft lavender fabric bounce around her shapely ankles. Lottie appeared ethereal when yards of palest blue satin swished and swayed around her captivating shape.

Cayle groaned, not caring who heard. This evening was going to be disastrous and he had no one to blame but himself. These
last-minute
gowns were so spectacular that every expensively clad lady, especially his stepmother, would morph into spitting cats.

Cursing himself for his naiveté, he wanted to order Becca back upstairs to change into something less flattering. Perhaps a burlap sack. Anything but this mossy green silk, shot with silver threads, which shimmered brighter than her flashing eyes. A gown that didn’t dry his mouth, cling to her curves, and attract every rogue and rake to her side.

As she walked towards him, he blanked his expression. He’d been careful to look appreciative, not leering, towards her sisters. Yet she gave him a fiery look. An unspoken challenge.

Unable to stop himself, he glanced down. Followed the line of her bodice to the crossover vee between her breasts, past her waist and onwards to her hips. Fabric flowed like a meandering rivulet around her curved body and swung in a soft arc around her matching dancing slippers. Contrary to the current penchant for an overabundance of layers, fabric had been used sparingly and cut in long and simple lines that suited her stature and her generous curves to perfection.

Cayle could barely breathe. Could only stand and stare.

• • •

Thompson recovered first. He handed a shawl to the older lady and the footman moved slowly forward to do the same for Laura and Lottie. Cayle lifted the last shawl from the side table and moved to Becca. He dipped his head before moving behind her to drop the warm covering across her shoulders. If he touched her, she’d notice his shaking hands. He didn’t want her to imagine the presence of her sisters had caused havoc on his nerves and take him to task over it.

He spoke quietly beside her ear. “You are breathtaking. Every man in England will want you.”

She swivelled her head and stared at him, wide-eyed. “Apart from you, of course, Your Grace.”

He frowned. Was that dismay, or derision? Despite knowing that a renewed intimacy between them was impossible, his potent male side longed to see a smidgen of his own regret reflected in her eyes. Again his gaze went to the minuscule bodice that strained to contain her white breasts. Impossible to concentrate on her words when so much skin was open to his scrutiny.

“And I’ve warned you about keeping your eyes, and your thoughts, away from my sisters.”

As she fastened her cloak, he spoke again. “Believe me, I’ve no room in my head for thoughts of them.”

She eyed him suspiciously before marching down the steps to his coach. Her behaviour didn’t faze him. He’d charmed his way into the beds of some of most beautiful women in Europe, and with ridiculously little effort. Perhaps it was arrogant, but working his wiles on all four Jamison women seemed a simple enough task. The additional benefit of paying attention to Laura and Lottie was that his flirtations with them would drive Becca mad. She sent his thoughts whirling each time they were together.

Like now, when she bent forward from the opposite seat and her neckline dipped wider and deeper. His gulp must have been heard because Aunt Aggie admonished him with her eyes before circling a finger towards Becca and alerting her to her gaping neckline. Becca looked down, formed a small oh with her mouth, and slipped her fingers inside to tug her bodice upwards. He smothered another groan. If she moved again, he’d need to sit on his hands to stop them reaching across to help her. The bodice sat high enough to be decent, though still sagged enough to cause him grief. A half hour in the coach each way plus an evening playing Becca’s devoted attendant, was going to be pure torture.

Laura addressed Becca in an amused voice, “I told you that plunging neckline would cause a sensation. You’ll need to spend the night clutching it to keep men’s eyes averted from your breasts.”

Aunt Agatha gave a loud snort. Cayle gave a low growl. Laura laughed.

Reaching over, she placed a gloved hand on his knee and with pretence of innocence asked, “Do you find Becca’s décolletage to be too revealing?”

Before he could agree, Becca spoke sharply. “Cayle is solely to blame. He forced us into accompanying him tonight.”

Guilelessly, Lottie corrected her sister, “We should be thanking Cayle for obtaining us invitations to this evening’s soiree. Mrs Simpson has only the cream of society at her recitals. Even Queen Victoria and Prince Albert often attend. Cayle can’t be blamed if Hettie did not adjust your neckline to a more conformist level.”

Cayle smiled at Lottie with gratitude then turned to address a seething Becca. “If you will allow me to assist.” Leaning forward, he retrieved the shawl that had fallen from her shoulders and handed it to her.

“The air is cool. We would not want you to catch a chill.”

Whilst Lottie gave a knowing smirk, Laura clapped her hands and laughed with absolute abandon. “Oh, well done, Cayle. How very sensible of you.”

Aunt Agatha thankfully rushed to his defence before he could embarrass himself more. “The duke is proving a true gentleman. He has more knowledge of these things than we do, so we should heed his advice tonight.”

With a smug look he turned to Becca, only to find her glaring at him with a baleful expression. However, Aunt Agatha’s next comment took the wind out of his sails.

“Especially if there is to be dancing. This latest fad for an overly energetic polka will cause a scandal for some young lady when she has a mishap with the bodice of her gown. I only hope it doesn’t happen to one of my darling nieces.”

Visions of Becca losing her bodice in the middle of a dance were enough to make Cayle squirm. He was prudent enough to remain silent and stare out the window for the rest of the journey. At this stage of his life he couldn’t marry, but he had a clear picture in his head of tearing off Becca’s bodice and watching her ripe breasts spill into his hands.

Last night, he’d felt an entirely masculine and primitive satisfaction over her eager response to his touch and now it would be difficult to keep his hands to himself. He wanted to touch her, to taste her again. Despite his personal turmoil, he needed to put leading strings on her in order to protect her. He didn’t want her to stray far from his side each evening until the threat to the family had been relieved.

Taking the initiative and knowing he would be stirring an ant’s nest, he announced his demands. “Rebecca,” he addressed her formally, “if we give the impression that we are somewhat more than friends, it will provide the perfect excuse for us to remain close this evening.”