Two Beaux and a Promise Collection (9 page)

Richard was content to give Stagleigh the credit. All he wanted was Georgiana. She had taken society by storm, becoming so popular that they could rarely steal a moment alone. But their betrothal was finally over. Tonight…

She reached his side, radiant in the light streaming through the stained-glass window beyond the choir. Thunderous organ music lifted his spirits higher than ever. As he raised her hand for a lingering kiss, the heat in her eyes nearly buckled his knees. Tonight…

The bishop stepped forward. “Dearly beloved…”

Richard kept his eyes fixed on Georgiana’s. Only a month had passed since he’d last heard those words. Who would have guessed how much could change?

When it was time for his vows, his voice filled the nave. “I, Richard … take thee, Georgiana … for richer or poorer…”

Love was worth more than any fortune. Love and Georgiana.

THE ULTIMATE MAGIC

The Three Beaux, Part 3

Allison Lane

— 1 —

December 22, 1818

“How dare you call me foolish?” snarled Diana Russell. “Wedding Giles is a mistake, I tell you. There’s no magic when we’re together. He won’t even talk to me!  I
won’t
tie myself to a man who ignores me. I won’t!  So leave me alone!”  She slammed out of the room.

Cursing, Edith Knolton followed. If Diana made it to the altar without scandal, it would be a miracle.

“Only four more days,” she reminded herself as she strode down the hall. Once the wedding was over, she could return home, celebrate a belated Christmas with her family, then relax while she studied the employment offers she was already receiving – but only if Diana avoided scandal. Who would hire a finishing governess who couldn’t control her charge?

The fear of scandal loomed larger every day. Diana was arrogant, selfish, and willful at the best of times. Now that doubts about her betrothal to Giles Merrimont had set in…

Nothing Edith said helped. Diana expected him to mimic the fawning cubs who formed her court – her blue-eyed, blonde loveliness had turned heads all her life. But Giles was a man in his prime, his temperament perfectly suited to the sober negotiations he conducted for the Foreign Office. Girlish whims annoyed him, especially Diana’s insistence on daily proof that she was the center of his world.

She wasn’t.

Edith shook her head. There was no ignoring that Giles was often called to his office with little advance notice. If Diana fell into hysterics every time the Crown disrupted her plans, no one would blame Giles for shutting her away. Such antics could jeopardize his position.

No footsteps clattered up the staircase, so Edith hurried toward the side door.

She should have followed her custom and taken a new post the moment Diana accepted Giles’s offer. Her job was to prepare girls for their Season, then chaperon them until they made a match. This was the first time she’d agreed to remain through the wedding – and the last. Between Lady Russell’s fragile nerves and Diana’s megrims, what should have been another feather in Edith’s cap threatened to become her first failure.

As Edith rounded the last corner, she saw Diana slip outside. Since fleeing Edith, the girl had donned her smartest cloak. What did she intend this time? 

Edith hoped it would be a brisk ride to settle her nerves, but that wasn’t likely. Diana wasn’t wearing a habit. The girl would never climb on a horse without proper attire and an admiring audience.

Edith feared that Diana was headed for an assignation. This latest outburst seemed contrived, the petulance false, the tears feigned. That she’d stashed a cloak nearby before staging her little drama made it a certainty. She was probably meeting Mr. Jessup. Their flirtation last night had raised more than a few brows.

Even last week Edith would have trusted Jessup – he was Giles’s cousin, best friend, and official witness for the wedding. But he’d been behaving oddly since arriving at Russell House four days earlier, as if determined to prevent this marriage. Giles’s diplomatic mask revealed none of his feelings, but something was clearly wrong between the men.

Icy wind slammed into Edith’s face when she reached the terrace, but she had no time to fetch her own cloak. Diana was already out of sight, probably in the wilderness walk that skirted the drive. Shivering, Edith ran after her.

The breeding that gave Edith access to society let her command a high salary. But the nature of her work meant that few posts lasted more than a year. Even a small smudge on her record could affect future employment. If Diana jilted Giles, many would blame Edith for the resulting scandal.

She’d known that accepting this post had been risky, of course, but Sir Waldo Russell had offered a huge premium for her services. One meeting had convinced Edith that Diana was as spoiled a beauty as walked the earth, but she’d felt up to the challenge. Hadn’t she got the impish Bedford twins safely settled?

And she
had
managed until now, softening Diana’s arrogance enough that the girl had caught Giles’s eye. He was the son of a viscount and had excellent prospects – many believed he would be Foreign Secretary one day – so it was an outstanding match for the daughter of a minor baronet. Edith should have left Sir Waldo’s employ the next day. But she’d known that Diana needed further training in protocol and world affairs if she hoped to succeed as a diplomatic hostess, so she’d agreed to stay. Now…

“Four more days,” she repeated as the path twisted through shrubbery so thick she could rarely see more than a dozen feet ahead.

She shivered in the icy cold, cursing her own stupidity. She should have spoken to Sir Waldo last night. Yes, he would have lectured Diana about responsibility and duty, putting the girl’s back up and likely making her worse. And yes, his opinion of Edith’s competency would have fallen, jeopardizing her bonus. But he would have designated a couple of footmen to watch his daughter. Edith couldn’t do it alone, as this latest start demonstrated.

“Well, well. A delectable morsel rushing to join me.” 

Not now!
Edith nearly snapped as she skidded to a halt. Diana’s dissolute brother stood squarely in the path, drunk, though it was barely three. A mad dog could pose no more danger.

Peter grinned maliciously. “You’ve been avoiding me, my sweet.”

“My duties keep me busy with Diana.”  She warily backed a step, then another. At twenty-two, Peter was a vicious bully who took what he wanted – which just now was her. Not that he liked her, but she had stupidly made her disdain clear when he’d tried to steal a kiss last week. He hated rejection.

“Your duties are whatever I say they are,” he snarled, springing.

Even as she turned to flee, he slammed her into a tree.

A scream escaped. She clamped her mouth shut, horrified. If anyone discovered her with Peter, her reputation would shatter.

“Shout all you want,” he panted, rubbing against her. “No one can hear.”

It was all too true. Few would brave today’s harsh wind, so she was on her own. “Leave me alone!” she spat, stretching until she could sink her teeth into his neck above his cravat. As he recoiled, she jerked a hand free and gouged his face, drawing blood.

But there was no escape. His backhand snapped her head sideways. Fingers closed around her throat even as he hissed, “Claw me again and you’ll die, bitch. But if you satisfy me well enough, I’ll let you live.”

Live?
she wanted to shout.
How? 
Without her reputation, she had nothing.

Closing her eyes, she again scratched at his face. Death was preferable to ruination. Even if she somehow escaped this encounter, she would be ruined. All he had to do was brag that she’d begged to be taken. No one ever believed a servant over a gentleman. Her life was over. Her mother—

She was suddenly free.

Peter roared in pain.

Her eyes flew open, but it took a moment to believe the sight. Peter stood six feet away, half bent over, one hand clutching his privates, the other twisted upward behind him. As someone inched the arm higher, Peter whimpered.

Edith shakily straightened. Only then did she recognize her savior – Lord Charles Beaumont.

She closed her eyes in horror.

She’d often glimpsed him in London, for he stood out in any crowd. The best looking of the Three Beaux – society’s favorite rakehells, whose closeness made them nearly brothers – Lord Charles was six feet of glorious manhood. Broad shoulders. Trim waist. Muscular legs that were the envy of every dandy in town. His auburn curls framed an arresting face dominated by a full, sensuous mouth and the seductive emerald eyes that had lured half of society’s matrons into his bed.

Today those eyes flashed with fury, she realized when she looked again. And his lips drew back in a snarl she suspected few had seen.

Mortification chased away her terror. Of all possible rescuers, why did it have to be him?  He already thought her a clumsy fool. His droll account of their first meeting had amused society for days. His account of their second had raised suspicions of her competence. Now he would think her wanton as well. One word would destroy her, and she had no reason to think he would stifle that word. He entertained all of London with his exploits, so turning this encounter into another hilarious anecdote was exactly like him.

Not that he seemed amused at the moment, she admitted as he murmured something that drained the last color from Peter’s face.

“The Beaux will be watching,” he continued, stepping back. “Make one false move in town, and I’ll know. Set one foot wrong here, and I’ll hear about it. Hawthorne lives across that hill, and Hughes just beyond him,” he added, naming his fellow Beaux. “You haven’t a prayer of avoiding them.”

Peter fled.

Edith cringed as Lord Charles turned his sardonic gaze on her.

“You again.”  He shook his head. “Did he hurt you?”

The question was so unexpected, her jaw dropped. “N-no.”

“Liar. He was choking you when I arrived.”  Before she realized his intent, he’d tilted her head back to expose her throat. “That will bruise. You’d best pin a ribbon around it until the marks fade. Adding a sprig of holly will forestall questions and let you wear it all day. ’Tis the season, and all that.”

“Th-thank you.”  His touch burned clear to her toes.

“He won’t bother you again,” he continued, turning her so he could brush bark and moss from her skirts. “There. Nothing to raise eyebrows. Are you sure you’re all right?”

She nodded, though if he didn’t stop touching her, she would likely faint.

“Excellent.”  He backed away. “You’d best return to the house before you freeze. I’d lend you my coat, but someone would wonder how you came by it.”  He grinned. “At least it survived this encounter intact. Let’s keep it that way. My valet will be most upset at another disaster. We brought only one trunk on this jaunt.”  He headed for the drive, adding, “Good job on Russell’s face, but a hard knee to the groin is more effective. You might want to remember that.”

And he was gone.

Edith collapsed against a tree, cursing steadily under her breath – at Peter for his attack, at Lord Charles for the reminder of her most embarrassing moments, at herself for her damnable infatuation…  Thank heaven he didn’t know about that, or he would roast her worse than ever – if he could stop laughing long enough to speak.

Why had he rescued her?

She frowned.

Gentlemen never interfered with one another’s pleasures, especially when the sport involved servants. Yet he had been furious at Peter. Only Peter. His threats had terrified the younger man – itself a shock, for even Sir Waldo couldn’t control his heir. And not once, by word or deed, had he suggested that she had enticed him. Everyone made that assumption when a servant was discovered with a gentleman.

Damn Charles anyway!  How was she to be sensible now that he’d revealed the honor and compassion she’d sworn he didn’t have?

Shoving the thought aside, she headed for the house. It was too late to follow Diana. All she could do was pray that no scandal erupted. In the meantime, she must hide evidence of Peter’s attack. There was a chance it would remain secret after all.

* * * *

Charles remounted his horse, castigating himself for interfering. Yet what else could he have done?  He hated men who forced unwilling women.

Russell would pay, he vowed as he trotted up the drive. For the attack. For abandoning honor. But especially for reminding Charles of the day he’d found his sister’s governess broken and bleeding after a brutal rape. She’d died that night. He’d been barely ten.

At least this time he’d arrived before anyone was hurt. But why the devil did the victim have to be the annoying Miss Knolton, bane of his existence? 

Oh, he’d known that she worked at Russell House. That was why he’d originally declined the invitation to this house party. But Castlereagh had ordered him to attend. Baron Schechler was another guest. Since Merrimont had failed to wrap up a trade agreement with the Prussian, the Foreign Secretary had sent Charles to deal with the matter.

He would have welcomed the assignment if it had taken him anywhere else, for it gave him an excuse to skip his family’s Christmas gathering. They would present him with a bevy of suitable young ladies, but he wasn’t ready to reconsider marriage. Six months ago Emily had jilted him practically at the altar. Not until he figured out how he’d misjudged her so badly would he try again – though he could hardly explain his reluctance to others; no one must suspect that Lord Charles Beaumont’s judgment was faulty.

But it was.

His spirits plummeted, for the problem could so easily destroy his career. He’d battled Schechler for years. The man was an uncompromising ass at the best of times, but Charles had previously held his own in their discussions. Or so he’d thought. Now he had to wonder. No one who missed fundamental truths could negotiate even a simple contract. Had Schechler taken advantage of his incompetence all this time?  Would the wool fall from Castlereagh’s eyes, revealing how incapable Charles really was?