Brides of London: Regency Romance Collection Page 5

  Sighing, Peter wondered whether he ought to continue to walk towards White’s or hail a hackney. The streets were fairly quiet and no doubt a good number of pickpockets and the like would be hiding in the shadows. Muttering darkly under his breath about the dangers of walking the London streets, Peter made to hail a hackney—only to hear someone calling his name.

  “Marchmont? Is that you?”

  He turned swiftly, frowning. A figure emerged into the dim pool of light that came from the eerie glow of the street lanterns. His frown lifted as he recognized not only Lord Blackridge but also another gentleman whom Peter had not seen in some time and, much to his frustration, whose title he could not recall. “However did you recognize me from that distance and in this gloom?” Peter asked, as Lord Blackridge approached. “Where are you headed?”

  Lord Blackridge chuckled. “I would have known that slump of the shoulders and heavy-footed steps anywhere, Marchmont. You are still in the depths of despair, then?”

  Peter threw a glance towards the second gentleman and then gave Lord Blackridge a tiny shake of the head. He did not wish anyone to know of his troubles, particularly not an acquaintance Peter had not seen in some time.

  “In answer to your question,” Lord Blackridge continued, after only a moment’s pause, “we are to go to White’s, I think.” He glanced at the gentleman beside him. “Is that not so, Whitfield?”

  Earl of Whitfield.

  With a sigh of relief, Peter turned towards the man. “Good evening, Lord Whitfield. How very good to see you again and how fortune that I, too, am set in that direction.”

  Lord Whitfield was short, a little plump, and had one of the longest noses Peter had ever seen. It was why the gentleman had immediately been recognizable, even if Peter had forgotten his title.

  “Very fortunate indeed,” Lord Whitfield replied easily. “And it is good to see you also, Marchmont. Back to attempt to find yourself a wife this year, mayhap?” He chuckled and his hazel eyes filled with mirth as though he had made some sort of joke.

  “As it happens, yes,” Peter replied, a little stiffly. “I will admit that I spent the last Season doing very little other than admiring from afar, but this Season, I have set my heart upon finding a suitable young lady.” He did not mention Miss Grey and prayed that Lord Blackridge knew better than to say her name aloud.

  “Capital!” Lord Whitfield exclaimed, holding out his hand to an approaching hackney. “Then it is not to White’s that we must go, but to some ball or other, so that you might have ample opportunity to seek out this young lady, must we not?” He chuckled loudly as the hackney driver pulled the hackney to a halt just in front of them. “And as it stands, I know the very place we might go.”

  Peter shook his head. “I confess that I am not eager to dance this evening, Whitfield. White’s was my intention and I—”

  “Come now, do not be afraid!” Lord Whitfield exclaimed, reaching to pull himself inside. “Lord Staines is throwing a ball this evening and whilst it is not as grand as some may be, it will be good enough. You will have plenty of young debutantes to lay your eyes on, Marchmont. Trust me.” He did not wait for Peter to agree but gave the address to the hackney driver, who nodded and then proceeded to wait patiently for both Peter and Lord Blackridge to climb inside.

  “I am not adequately dressed,” Peter complained, wanting to find some reason why he simply could not go to any ball. “Nor have I received or even accepted an invitation.”

  Lord Whitfield snorted and shook his head, rapping loudly on the roof for the hackney driver to move forward. “Nonsense, old boy. You are dressed perfectly adequately and Lord Staines will not care in the least whether you were invited or not. It is late enough in the evening for the ball to be in full swing, which means that no one will even notice if we step in. Come now, do not be so low-spirited.”

  Peter grimaced but sat back in his chair, knowing that he could not find anything in particular to argue with. There was no reason for him not to attend, other than the fact that he did not wish to. The joy of White’s, with its quiet confines, books, and fine brandy was not to be his this evening, it seemed. Instead, he would have to endure conversing and even dancing with any young lady that seemed eager to make his acquaintance, in order to prove to Lord Whitfield that he was doing precisely as he had stated. How frustrating it was! All he had wanted to do was drink a good deal in order to forget the confusion and the frustration that dogged him almost every minute.

  “You need not look so forlorn, Marchmont,” Lord Blackridge murmured, as Lord Whitfield continued to look out of the window with a broad grin still plastered on his face. “Lord Staines has a good deal of fine whisky, which you will find in his library,” he said, clearly aware of what Peter’s intentions had been in attending White’s. “And I am sure that once we are in the midst of things, no one will be paying particular attention to you.”

  Peter let out a long sigh and rolled his eyes at Lord Blackridge. “Indeed,” he muttered darkly, his voice barely audible above the noise of the horses’ hooves and the wheels turning on the cobbled streets. “For I have already managed to seek out the company of Miss Grey tomorrow afternoon and I have no need to introduce myself to any other.”

  Lord Blackridge chuckled softly. “Then I must ensure that you have a decent supply of whisky or brandy this evening, in order to fortify you for tomorrow,” he replied, making Peter smile ruefully. “Although I am glad to hear that you have had some success with Miss Grey. You have not, as yet, told me all that has occurred, however.”

  “Then I shall do so tonight,” Peter replied with alacrity. “Just as soon as I am free of any other… company.” He shot a look towards Lord Whitfield, who was now looking eagerly out of the window as though by seeing Lord Staines’ home, the hackney might reach there much sooner.

  “Very good,” Lord Blackridge murmured, looking carefully at Peter. “I look forward to understanding your sudden desire to seek out Miss Grey again, particularly when you were not at all enamored with her of late.”

  Peter sighed heavily. “But I must be enamored with her now,” he stated as the hackney began to slow. “For I have no other choice.”

  It was not until at least an hour later that Peter was able to speak directly to Lord Blackridge about what had occurred. Lord Whitfield had, for whatever reason, chosen to stay close to them both and had insisted on introducing Peter to a good many young ladies, some of whom had been very pretty indeed. Peter had done his best to appear decently affable and had even danced with one or two of them, although his heart had not been in it. He would not, of course, pursue any of them, given that he would, from tomorrow, be courting Miss Grey.

  “So,” Lord Blackridge began as they strolled slowly through the dark gardens that led from Lord Staines’ ballroom. “What is it about Miss Grey that intrigues you so?”

  Scoffing at this, Peter shook his head in frustration. “I care nothing for Miss Grey. In fact, if I had my way, I would stay away from her entirely. I meant every word when I told her that the end of our courtship was for the best. Yet, I can make no other decision than to return to her. In fact,” he added, looking across at his friend and seeing, in the gloom, the way that he frowned, “I must do more than simply court her. I must marry her.”

  “Marry her?” Lord Blackridge nearly shouted, sounding horrified at this suggestion. “Why should you have to wed someone you care nothing for?”

  With another heavy sigh, Peter explained briefly what had occurred. Lord Blackridge said nothing as he spoke, with Peter explaining everything that had happened since he had woken up in that dark room. It was only when Peter had finished that Lord Blackridge let out a long breath, shaking his head in apparent disbelief.

  “That is quite astonishing,” he muttered, as Peter wondered whether he would be able to find any more whisky to take away the frustration that continued to build within him. “And you have no thought as to who might have written such a thing?”

  “None,” Peter si
ghed heavily. “I cannot imagine who would have done so.”

  There was a short, tense silence. “You do not think that it would be Miss Grey herself, do you?” Lord Blackridge suggested, sounding hesitant. “She would not…”

  Peter laughed aloud at this, despite the confusion and frustration that lingered in his heart. “No, indeed not. Miss Grey is nothing if she is not honest and I am fully aware of just how little she wishes to so much as walk with me.” He shook his head, recalling just how bluntly she had spoken. “No, Miss Grey cannot be considered and nor can her aunt, Lady Sharrow. I believe she was just as astonished as Miss Grey was over my appearance within the house and my declaration of affection.”

  Lord Blackridge sucked in a breath.

  “Yes,” Peter admitted slowly, dropping his head a little. “I had to pretend that the only reason I wished to court Miss Grey again was because I realized that I had feelings of affection within my heart that would not leave me. It was dishonest, yes, but I had very little choice.”

  A long breath escaped from Lord Blackridge. “And you are convinced that your brother might be in danger?”

  “I do not know!” Peter exclaimed, spreading his hands. “I cannot tell. I have no knowledge of where Edward might have gone and if he still lingers on the continent then my letters and a response thereafter will take much too long to return to me. The presence of his ring alongside the note concerns me greatly. How did this gentleman come across it? Why does he have it?” He shook his head. “I must take this threat with all seriousness. If I do not act, then I cannot be sure of what will occur. I cannot take that risk, Blackridge.”

  Lord Blackridge sighed heavily and rubbed at his forehead. “I can see your predicament,” he admitted, offering Peter no hope. “Is there a way for you to discover who wrote the letter?”

  Peter shook his head. “No, I do not think so.”

  “Then what do you intend to do?”

  Shrugging, Peter felt an ache slowly build within his chest, his heart thumping painfully as he forced himself to admit aloud what he already knew to be true. “I must do as I have been told,” he said unequivocally despite the pain he felt. “I must court and thereafter propose to Miss Grey. I must take her as my wife, even if I do not know who is forcing me to do as they request.” He tried to laugh but it came out as a harsh, jagged sound. “I suppose I do need an heir, do I not?”

  “But to consider Miss Grey as your wife is quite something,” Lord Blackridge protested weakly, as though he knew there was no immediate solution. “She is loud where you are quiet. She is not ashamed about speaking her mind whereas you would prefer to keep your opinions to yourself, unless you are asked directly. Moreover, she is something of a bluestocking, is she not?”

  Peter nodded, looking away. “But what else can I do?”

  “You can do nothing,” Lord Blackridge admitted after a few seconds of strained silence. “Unless you discover who wrote this and why they so urgently seek your and Miss Grey’s marriage.”

  Closing his eyes for a moment, Peter rubbed at his forehead and heaved another long breath. “I shall court her as I have been asked and attempt, in any way I can, to find out who has done this,” he said slowly, knowing that this was the only option open to him. “I know that I could ignore the letter and do nothing, but I dare not risk Edward’s life nor reputation.”

  “That speaks well of your fondness and dedication to your brother,” Lord Blackridge said carefully. “Although you must also consider yourself.”

  Peter shook his head, his spirits sinking low. “What consideration can there be? I need a wife in order to produce an heir and Miss Grey is just as reasonable as any, I suppose. I shall do what I have to in order to ensure that my brother is safe. After all, he is the only family that I have left in this world.”

  “There is one other option, however.”

  Peter stopped dead, a voice that was unfamiliar to him reaching his ears. He froze as Lord Blackridge stared down at him, his mouth ajar as they both tried to work out who could possibly be speaking.

  “You will have to forgive me for eavesdropping, but when it concerns my most particular friend, I am afraid that I have very little choice but to intervene.” Something else was murmured—most likely to a companion—and as this was said, Peter forced himself to turn about and look at the lady in question.

  He recognized her as she stepped forward, remembering her to be the young lady with whom he had danced some night previously. Miss Smallwood, if he remembered correctly.

  “As I said, gentlemen, there is another consideration that you have not once given thought to,” the lady said in a quiet voice.

  “And what is that, might I ask?” Peter replied, thinking to himself that Miss Smallwood had not been this articulate nor this determined in her speech when he had first been introduced to her.

  Miss Smallwood gave him a small smile, then tipped her head a little to the left. “You can tell Miss Grey the truth,” she said simply. “She has intelligence enough to work alongside you and compassion enough that she will not turn away from you without careful consideration.” Her smile broadened and a small gleam came into her eyes. “And I must also add that if you do not speak the truth to her, Lord Marchmont, then I fear that I may have to do so on your behalf, for I certainly will not allow my friend to be dragged into a marriage without the full understanding of what it is you are doing.” There was a moment’s pause. “Do I make myself clear, Lord Marchmont?”

  He swallowed hard, his face and neck burning with a sudden heat and his eyes darting from here to there, afraid that someone else might overhear or that Miss Grey herself might suddenly appear and demand to know what he was speaking of to Miss Smallwood.

  “Perfectly clear, Miss Smallwood,” he murmured, relieved that the gloom did not permit her to see just how embarrassed he was. “I see that, yet again, I have no choice but to do as I am instructed.”

  Miss Smallwood did not appear to be upset by this, nor did she look even remotely embarrassed. Instead, she simply smiled, curtsied, and then turned to walk away.

  6

  Ophelia was doing her utmost to appear even slightly interested in Lord Marchmont’s conversation, but given that it was stilted and uneven, she was finding it increasingly difficult to do so. They were walking through St James’s Park and, whilst the day was fine and the sun warm, Ophelia struggled to find any enjoyment whatsoever.

  “I do recall that you have always enjoyed walking in the park.”

  Sighing to herself, Ophelia looked up at Lord Marchmont, taking in his strained expression and wondering why he was putting himself through such torment in order to court her when she knew that there would be plenty of other young ladies with whom he might find things a good deal easier. “From what I recall, Lord Marchmont, we took three short strolls in the park and you called upon me twice for afternoon tea.” She arched a brow at him as he looked at her again, clearly a trifle uncomfortable. “It was a courtship of a sennight, at the very most.”

  “Ten days,” he muttered, lowering his gaze to the path in front of them. “And as I have said, I have found a great affection for you ever since I brought our courtship to an untimely end.”

  “Yes,” Ophelia replied dryly. “So you have said.” She sighed again and looked back to the path in front of her, thinking to herself that the sooner this walk with Lord Marchmont ended, then the sooner she would be free of him. She would make it quite clear that she had no desire to continue their courtship and certainly no desire to wed him, even if he had this ‘great affection’ within his heart. The warnings of her aunt rose in her mind, recalling how she had been told that the life of a spinster would be one of difficulty and strife, but try as she might, Ophelia could not even imagine a life lived with Lord Marchmont. He was dull, boring, and, whilst handsome enough, did not smile a great deal but rather seemed to remain almost entirely serious.

  “Miss Grey?”

  She started, turning her head to see Lord Marchmont looking
down at her with a question in his eyes. A little ashamed that she had not been paying any attention, she felt a flush rise in her cheeks and, as her face burned, she saw that Lord Marchmont’s lips crooked into a smile.

  A trifle irritated, Ophelia resisted the urge to flounce a little, but gathering herself, chose to speak honestly. “I was not listening to you, I fear,” she stated as he smiled. “What was it you asked me, Lord Marchmont?”

  Lord Marchmont shook his head and let out what Ophelia made to be an exasperated breath.

  “I am rather dull, am I not?” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth as his eyes lingered on the ground by his feet. “I do not hold your interest, Miss Grey.”

  “No,” she replied, but without any malice whatsoever. “I fear you do not, Lord Marchmont.” Hesitating, she considered the flash of guilt that had suddenly sliced through her heart. “Although mayhap I should be more careful in not allowing my attention to drift, Lord Marchmont.” She glanced at him, a small, self-conscious smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Forgive me.”

  Lord Marchmont looked surprised, his eyebrows lifting for a moment as he looked back at her. Their steps had slowed, the air around them seeming to grow thick as Ophelia held his gaze. Had his eyes always been such a mixture of dark greens and browns? She had always thought his brown eyes to be rather dull, but now that she looked into them a little more closely, Ophelia realized that she had been wrong in that assumption.

  Lord Marchmont cleared his throat loudly, catching Ophelia by surprise and making her jump. “I shall make more of an effort to maintain your interest, then, by being all the more interesting, Miss Grey.”

  “I hardly think that such a thing would be possible, Lord Marchmont.”

  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Shame crashed over her like a wave, sending a flurry of heat from her chest to the very top of her head. She wanted to bury her face in her hands, to step back in horror and to turn and run from him, such was her mortification. Silence reigned for some minutes, leaving Ophelia in such a state of embarrassment that she did not know what to do or what to say. Yes, she knew she should apologize, but she could not even think of how to begin.