Barbara Metzger (2 page)

Adelina crossed her arms over her chest. “Papa will never let you toss me over like this. The settlements, don’t you know.”

“They haven’t been signed. But let me tell you, if by some chance you do manage to hold me to this engagement just so you can call yourself Lady Chase, you’ll find yourself married and shipped off to my property in Cornwall before the cat can lick its ear. I doubt there’s even a lighthouse keeper there you’d wish to seduce. No trips to London, no balls or fancy gowns, no chance of betraying me or disgracing my family name.”

No presiding over the ton? She’d rather marry Peter Fanshawe then. Adelina reached for her boots. She also reached for what is more commonly found on barn floors. She waited, then threw a handful of manure at Courtney when he walked past her.

“I take it you now agree that we wouldn’t suit.” He wiped his cheek, then handed her his handkerchief to wipe her hands. “Oh, and do blow your nose.”

Chapter Two

It wasn’t snowing in Lord Marlowe’s study, but the temperature had dropped by ten degrees in the last ten seconds. Courtney thought he might never feel his toes again, after that frigid walk back. Then again, he might never leave this room alive. Lord Marlowe’s pouchy cheeks were reaching the purple stage, and his plump fingers were reaching for his dueling pistol. They came up with a penknife instead, to Courtney’s relief, and the baron began butchering an innocent quill. The viscount watched slivers fly as he edged closer to the fireplace, letting his host and erstwhile prospective father-in-law rage on.

“What do you mean, you’ve both decided you won’t suit? You suit to a cow’s thumb, by George! You’re both wellborn to titled families. My gal’s no great heiress, but her portion is respectable enough that you can’t say this was cream-pot convenience. You make a handsome couple, and I expected handsome grandchildren, b’gad! The two of you are of similar ages, educated to your stations, and know all of the same people.”

Not quite all, Courtney thought, trying to warm his hands by the meager fire. He didn’t know that footman, for one, or the dancing master. His sense of honor couldn’t let him besmirch a lady’s name, of course, so he merely apologized again for declaring himself before he and Miss Marlowe had time to become well enough acquainted.

“Time? What’s time got to do with it, sirrah? Lady Marlowe and I met in church the day we were wed. Arranged marriage, don’t you know, and all for the best. Three sons, and the prettiest chit in the county. Aye, that’s what I should have done, made a match for her myself, instead of listening to this true-love tripe.”

“I’m sure Miss Marlowe will be happiest with the man of her choice.”

“Balderdash! She chose you, didn’t she? Mealy-mouthed gudgeon who lets a featherheaded chit change her mind after the notices’ve been sent. And cow-handed to boot. Demmit, you’re not the man your grandfather promised.”

Marlowe’s daughter wasn’t the lady he promised either. And a cow-handed driver? Hell, Courtney would guide his pair through the snow-covered Alps rather than stay one more night under this roof.

Courtney’s conversation with his grandfather was slightly more heated, both the ducal drawing room and the duke’s temper. Lord Marlowe had already canceled their weekly chess game, and His Grace was only slightly less aggravated at the loss of the granddaughter-in-law he’d approved.

“What the deuce did you do to the chit to make her cry off, anyway, you jackanapes?” he shouted, thumping his cane on the floor, and not for the first time, judging by the bare spot in the carpet. Viscount Chase took a practiced step backward, out of range. “Didn’t take you for a flat who’d rush his fences with a gently bred girl, by all that’s holy. Oh well, that female has her sights set on the strawberry leaves and tiara. You’ll be able to talk her ‘round.”

Courtney said, “I have no intentions of pursuing the matter,” then ducked.

The cane went flying as he knew it would. “What, a broken engagement? Never. I forbid you to bring such disgrace on the family, boy. That’s bad ton.”

“Better bad ton than a bad marriage. I’m sorry. Your Grace, but I cannot wed Miss Marlowe.”

A book followed the cane. “Then you better find some other chit willing to put up with your fits and starts, and you better do it before careful fathers start keeping their daughters out of your clutches. I want an heir, do you hear me? I could pop off any day, and where would that leave the dukedom? In the hands of some rattlepate who could break his neck tomorrow in a steeplechase race, like your clunch of a father. I won’t have it, I tell you! Now get out and don’t come back till you’ve found another mother for my heir.”

Lord Chase got out, muttering how if the duke wanted another heir so badly, His Grace might as well wed and bed Miss Marlowe himself. Everyone else seemed to have.

His mama, writing from Trowbridge, outside of Bath, blamed Miss Marlowe, of course. The female must be dicked in the nob, Rosemary, Lady Chase, wrote, to toss aside a prize catch like her dearest Courtney. Perhaps that’s why Adelina was still on the shelf after three Seasons. He was better out of the match if such instability ran in the Marlowe family. And that’s what she was telling all her friends when they shook their heads and clucked their tongues over the broken betrothal. Lady Chase only hoped his heart wasn’t broken. She’d help him find a more perfect wife, come spring.

The only sensible response to the viscount’s ended engagement came, as usual, from Nanny Dawson, when he visited her at that house in Kensington. His retired nursemaid merely shrugged over her sewing and said, “If it wasn’t right, it wasn’t right, and you’ll know it when it is. Meantime, don’t listen to the gossip. You know it’ll all blow away like last week’s snow. Come the snowdrops, those nodcocks will have something better to talk about.”

Unfortunately the gossip didn’t die, nor did the gabble-grinders find a choicer tidbit, for a woman scorned had a hellish score to settle. Adelina couldn’t keep her mouth closed any more man she could her legs.

The baron’s daughter wasn’t precisely shunned on her return to London for the Season; no one gave her the cut direct or pulled their skirts aside when she passed. Her vouchers to Almack’s weren’t even rescinded. On the other hand, neither was she welcomed by her usual throngs of admirers or avalanches of invitations. Adelina Marlowe was firmly labeled a jilt, a flirt, a fussy female, none of them good recommendations for a bride. She was twenty-one, going on imminent and eternal spinster-hood. If she didn’t find a husband this Season, she might as well put on caps. And Peter Fanshawe had gone off to India.

What was a girl to do? Adelina defended her honor in the usual way of a woman without any of that precious commodity: with innuendo. She couldn’t admit that Viscount Chase had found her wanting, of course, so she insinuated, implied, and indicated, to her intimates only, that he was somewhat wanting as a man. Suddenly the talk was not about Miss Marlowe’s next conquest, but about who—or what—his lordship visited at that place in Kensington.

“I always did think Chase was too pretty by half,” went one conversation at White’s. “Blond curls and blue eyes like a cherub. Fellow even has dimples, so m’sister says.”

“But he’s a bruising rider, just like his father.”

“Chap was raised by his mother, though, don’t you know.”

At Almack’s one of the gilt-chair brigade sighed.
“
He’s such an excellent dresser.”

“Too excellent, perhaps,” her companion replied.

Another sigh. “But look at how he fills his inexpressibles.”

“Sawdust and sockings, my dear, sawdust and stockings.”

Courtney knew he was a topic of speculation; he simply didn’t know why. He was receiving sidelong glances, stifled giggles, and even a pinch in the crowded corridor at Drury Lane. Then he received a furious letter from his grandfather, threatening to disown him for bringing shame to the family, and a tearstained one from his mother, who suddenly changed her mind about returning to London for the Season.

His valet quit. “I have my own reputation to consider, milord.”

“What, is mine so bad, because I’m not going to make a match with some spoiled Toast?”

“No, it’s fear that you might make a match with some spoiled, ah, milquetoast.”

Viscount Chase tossed the man out on his disloyal, distrustful, disgusting ear. And bought himself a half-tamed stallion to ride in the park. And wore his clothes slightly mussed, which was easy since he didn’t hire another valet. And spent twice as many hours as usual at Jackson’s Boxing Parlour and Antoine’s Fencing Academy. No matter, he found himself alone in the changing rooms.

Invitations to social events still arrived by the dozens. Of course they did; he was still a wealthy, unwed peer. Invitations to mills and card games and shooting matches, though, dwindled to a handful. Even his best friends Algie and Woody had taken themselves off to Newmarket for the training races. Thunderation, what the devil of a coil!

Dash it, was he the only untried young man in all of England not in religious orders? Were ape-leaders, unfledged debs, and Courtney Choate the last virgins on earth? Heaven knew staying chaste wasn’t easy. It was deuced hard, in fact. Often. Hell, if it weren’t hard,
then
it would be easy.

In his schoolboy days, Courtney was barely tempted to stray from his standards. The females available to him then were a blowzy, sordid lot, selling their favors and the French pox indiscriminately. London, though, was rife with temptation, especially for a man with money. Actresses, ballet dancers, and gambling hall dealers tumbled into a rich man’s lap regularly. Professional birds of paradise preened themselves along the horse paths in the park. Or else, if a gentleman balked at paying for his pleasure, a bauble or a bouquet brought him the bedroom keys to the willing widows and the straying spouses of the beau monde. A man wasn’t simply encouraged to partake of the buffet of unsanctified sex; he was expected to. And oh, how hungry Courtney was to sample the delicacies.

He wasn’t a monk. He admired women, respected women, loved women. He loved their infinite differences, their universal softness, their curves and shadows and hidden secrets. But he had principles. Now he had a problem.

The way he saw it, through the bottom of a bottle of brandy, he had two choices. First, he could sacrifice his ethics to save his reputation. That is, he could fornicate his way back into favor. Having come this far with his beliefs and his personal honor unshaken, though, Courtney wasn’t ready to concede. Stubborn pride wouldn’t let him give up now, not when he knew he was right. There
was
a place for virtue in the world, even if he was the only unmarried man who practiced it.

There was another option. He could prove his masculinity by joining the army and dying a hero. A rake or a redcoat, those were his hellish choices, to become a womanizer or cannon fodder. The former would devastate his mother; the latter would give his grandfather apoplexy. Courtney chose the army.

Lieutenant Choate distinguished himself on the battlefield. He had to outride, outshoot, outbrave the bravest to prove his worth, and he did. Off the battlefield, he distinguished himself as being one of the few young officers not afflicted with parasites and personal ailments from visiting the camp followers. General Wellesley himself commended Courtney’s valor and good sense. Frequently mentioned in the dispatches, the viscount won medals, promotions, and the admiration of his men—but nary an offer to share his tent with a fellow officer.

He did turn down other offers, from women with nothing to sell but their bodies. He gave them coins, food, or blankets when he could, but wasn’t even tempted to take advantage of their misery. The occasional senorita he met at private parties for the general’s staff, however, offered more enticement, especially when he thought of dying without ever really knowing a woman. Such morbid thoughts usually came during battles, though, when the now Captain Choate was too busy to change his uniform, much less his moral tenets. Instead, he did his damnedest to stay alive.

His body and his beliefs intact, Viscount Chase survived almost two years of the Peninsula campaign. In truth, he came closer to succumbing to a grandee’s daughter than to a Frenchman’s bullet

One did eventually find its mark—a bullet, not a black-eyed beauty. Courtney was going home. His face was scarred, his thigh was shattered, his beliefs were bent but not broken, and he was a hero.

Everyone welcomed him, everyone accepted him, and everyone excused his peculiarities as a result of his war wounds. He wouldn’t visit the new bordello? Of course not, his injury must be bothering him. The green room? Too many stairs. Dinner at Harriet Wilson’s? Too much exertion for his poor leg. Besides, he had someone waiting for him after the parties and card games and clubs, someone who would heat towels for his thigh and rub in liniment. Someone in Kensington.

“Of course you do. Court.” Vernon Woodbury, known as Woody to his friends, was standing by Courtney’s curricle outside White’s that afternoon, ready to assist his ascent. “And we can all see how improved you are under her tender care. Ain’t that right, Algie?”

Lord Algernon Lowe handed up the viscount’s cane. “A hundred percent since you came home last month, old man. Why, I’d wager you’ll be dancing a jig any day now. So when do we get to meet your ministering angel?”

“Meet her?”

“Can’t keep her to yourself forever, Court.” The expression on Woody’s pale, babyish face was hopeful, almost beseeching his friend not to disappoint them again.

Algie gave him some breathing room. “Why don’t you bring her to the Cyprians’ Ball next month? You’ll be stronger by then, even if you can’t waltz. And should your ladybird be shy, well, she can wear a mask.”

What Algie was saying was that, if the reason Courtney hadn’t brought the female around was that he was ashamed of her looks, here was an opportunity to put the gossip to rest once and for all.

“I’ll, ah, have to ask the lady,” Courtney said, clucking to his horses to start before his friends could ask any more questions.