Leslie Lafoy (13 page)

He’d hand her his handkerchief, offer his manly apologies, then slip his arm comfortingly around her shoulders and draw her close to promise that he’d do the right thing and marry her as soon as they could publish the banns and arrange for a ceremony. She’d sniffle and decline his too incredibly noble offer and he’d quietly insist that she accept. They’d go back and forth on that for a bit and then she’d give in and agree that his way was the wisest thing for them to do.

Then, after all that was settled, they’d climb into the carriage and go on to Ryland Castle. They’d greet the staff on the drive where he’d introduce her as his future duchess. She’d happily accept their congratulations and then they’d go inside, get Simone and Fiona situated, take care of any pressing household concerns, and then retire together for another private dinner.

And tomorrow morning he wouldn’t wake up with a splitting headache and ridden with guilt. He’d wake up
blissfully content and with her right there beside him in the bed, smelling like sandalwood and smiling at him in wanton invitation.

Yes, it was a completely workable plan. In fact, it was bloody brilliant.

  Seven  

“
NOW, NOW, CAROLINE
. . .”
DRAYTON LOOKED AT HIS RE
-flection in the cheval mirror and rolled his eyes. Clearing his throat, he shot his cuffs and lifted his chin. “Now see here, Caroline,” he said sternly.

No, that wasn’t going to work, either. It was too Lord Ryland for anything even remotely positive to happen after that. He straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and then let it out in one big rush as he said, “I can understand why you’d hate me, Caroline.”

He shook his head in disgust and looked over at the window. If he had any sort of sense at all, he’d throw himself out of it. But since the fall wasn’t likely to be nearly far enough to actually kill him, it would only add to his misery. Damn shame he couldn’t catch even the tiniest bit of luck these days. Well, except for last night. In certain respects he’d been the luckiest man to ever draw a ragged breath. Which of course was the reason he was having such a god-awful morning.

Maybe he could just write her a note.
“Dear Caroline. I have behaved badly. Well, not altogether badly as I seem to recall that you rather enjoyed it, but . . . ”
No. No, writing her a note was not a good idea at all.

He cleared his throat again, squared up the mirror, and was trying to achieve a smile that looked more cheerful than painful when someone knocked on the door. His first thought was that he’d been mercifully saved from a sad and pointless effort. The second was that it might be Caroline on the other side of the panel. And if it was . . . Drayton cast one last look at his reflection and crossed the room.

He opened the door expecting the worst. And got it. Not the worst that he’d been expecting, but it was close enough that he wasn’t going to split any hairs. “Haywood.” Friend. Fourth son. Notorious womanizer. God, couldn’t anything in his life go well?

Cyril Haywood, as impeccably arranged in a tailored riding suit as he always was in a uniform, adjusted the fit of the crop under his arm and grinned. “Hello and good morning to you, too.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Haywood’s grin widened as he studied him. “Your butler told me where to find you.”

Damn Haywood. “That’s not the answer to the question I asked and I’m in no mood for your games.”

“As I can see,” he said, chuckling. He sobered only marginally to add, “I came to preserve your sanity.”

His entire forehead creaked as he cocked a brow. “And why would you think that my sanity is in danger?”

“I have six sisters. I know what can happen to a man who finds himself trapped in a circle of petticoats. It’s not pretty. I’ve come to watch your back and offer advice gained from my considerable experience.”

Drayton narrowed his eyes, his mind not exactly whirling through all the information. Speed didn’t matter, though. Stumbling was quite sufficient to recognize all that hadn’t been said, but was in the explanation just the
same. The matter with Caroline would have to be slightly delayed. “How,” he began, wondering if he really wanted to know. “How do you know about . . .” Hell, all of it. The whole damned mess.

“They’ve gotten to you already,” he said, trying to look horrified but not pulling it off. “You’ve lost your edge.”

“I haven’t lost my edge,” Drayton countered, wanting to be angry, but as usual, not quite able to keep Haywood’s good humor from infecting him. “I drowned my brain last night and I’m suffering the consequences this morning. As you deduced the second I opened this door. I’ll be fine by noon.”

“They have marvelous coffee downstairs. An urn or two of it will brace you right up.” He glanced around the hall, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And by the by, my first piece of advice is to never let them drive you to drink. Once your thinking is clouded, you’re easy prey and they’ll move in for the kill.”

Haywood had absolutely no idea of how accurate that statement was. “Coffee’s an excellent idea,” he said, stepping out into the hall and pulling the door closed behind him.

“That’s the spirit, Ryland,” his friend said, falling in beside him. “It’s very odd to call you that, you know. Ryland. If I forget and call you Drayton or Mackenzie, just give me a good solid kick.”

“Call me Ryland,” Drayton replied, sliding a hard look over at him, “and I’ll call you Cyril.”

“Ouch. If you drank enough to be this surly, they must be hideous little monsters.”

“How do you know about them?” Drayton asked as they made their way down the stairs. “
What
do you know about them?”

“Oh, it’s all the talk at every house party. As the story goes at this point, before the embellishing truly begins, they’re the old duke’s by-blow daughters and you have to take them in or you don’t get old Lady Ryland’s money. As for what anyone knows about the girls . . . ” He paused in the explanation to smile and wink at a maid at the base of the stairs. As they crossed the foyer and headed for the inn’s breakfast room, he went on, adding, “All anyone seems to know is that there’s three of them and they’re all from the unwashed masses. Their choice of words, of course, not mine.”

That was the thing with Haywood. Under all the aristocratic breeze and pomp there really was a sharp mind and a surprisingly egalitarian view of the world. There were no layers to him when it came to women, though. He was a courtly predator from the top of his blond head to the toes of his expensive boots. And all the way to the marrow between. His ability to seduce any female between the ages of eighteen and eighty had always been nothing short of astounding. But now that Drayton had responsibilities on the other side of the man’s favorite pastime, it wasn’t nearly as amusing.

“I’d avoid the scones,” Haywood said as they stepped up to the buffet. “They’re as dry as sand. You could choke to death on them.”

“Only in my dreams.”

“So is what they say true?” Haywood pressed quietly as they carried their steaming cups to a linen-covered table. “Any of it? All of it?”

“It’s complicated,” Drayton supplied, stalling as he tried to decide just what he wanted to confide, as he weighed common sense against the comforts of friendship.

“Inheritance always is,” Haywood observed, putting his crop on an extra satin-covered chair before leaning back to stretch his legs out under the table. He snorted and smiled wryly. “Or at least so my older brothers tell me.”

Yes, the respectable ones who had packed him off to be of service to Queen and Country. “Why aren’t you with the regiment?”

He interrupted a sip to blithely answer, “Had a bit of a falling-out with Colonel Leighton and resigned my commission rather than make a public issue of it.”

Oh, no. He had to ask. The curiosity was just too morbid to deny. “A falling-out over what?”

“The fair Aldys.”

The colonel’s wife. “Good God.”

“And,” he added, wagging a brow, “the
delectable
Annabelle.”

“His daughter, too?” Only Haywood. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Oh, trust me,” Haywood replied, chuckling. “It was worth the risks.” He sighed in apparent contentment and then blinked and lifted his cup and saucer, saying, “Since I’m now at loose ends—”

“And unwelcome at home for so badly mangling the military career.”

“Well, yes, and that,” he allowed with a brief shrug. “No one was terribly surprised. Anyway, I thought I’d catch up to you and see what potential there is for being a duke’s toady. I think I’d be fairly good at it.”

“What is it that toadies of the peerage do?”

“Fawn, mostly. Tell you how brilliant you are. Let you win at cards. That sort of thing.”

“Drink my liquor, eat my food, and smoke my cigars?”

“Of course,” Haywood said with a snort. “That goes without saying.”

Drayton tilted his head and asked pointedly, “Chase my housemaids?”

“Only the ones you don’t want,” he replied, his eyes lit with the prospect. “Dukes always get first choice.”

Dalliances with the maids? No, he wouldn’t have either the energy or the inclination. He’d already made his choice—albeit out of stupidity. There was no changing it and he wasn’t all that unhappy about the outcome. No man with Caroline in his bed could claim to be unhappy about it.

But marriage to Caroline wasn’t his problem at the moment. Haywood—or more precisely, what to do with Haywood—was. On the one hand, harboring a Lothario hadn’t been one of his life’s ambitions. Doing so came with all sorts of complications, most of them decidedly unpleasant. On the other hand, having a keen and trustworthy mind at his ready disposal would be invaluable in the days ahead. On that same hand, was also the—

“Mornin’, Drayton.”

He looked up from his coffee and his musing to see Simone standing at the end of the table. God save him, now that she was clean, her hair combed . . . She was still wearing her boyish clothes, but they’d been laundered and she . . . she . . . she was absolutely beautiful. His heart clenched as he realized that, in just a few short years, men of Haywood’s inclinations were going to be storming the doors trying to get to her.

Actually, he realized, as he noted her gaze sweeping Haywood from head to the edge of the tablecloth, God save them. Clearly Haywood wasn’t measuring up very
well. And Haywood was, just as clearly, stunned by the fact. Drayton grinned.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“A friend of mine from the regiment,” he supplied as a wonderful solution bloomed in his brain. “Lady Simone Turnbridge,” he said, gesturing openhanded to the man across the table, “this is Haywood.”

At his name, the man recovered his poise to half rise from his chair and offer a bow of sorts and say, “A pleasure, my dear.”

In typical Simone fashion, she turned away from him. “Turnbridge?”

“Your father’s family name,” Drayton explained as Haywood blinked at Simone’s back. “It’s now yours. Congratulations. Where are your sisters?”

“They’ll be right down,” she answered, putting a hand flat on the table and leaning her weight on it. “We goin’ to be leavin’ soon?”

“As soon as everyone’s had something to eat and the bags are in the carriage.”

She looked over her shoulder at Haywood. “He comin’ along?”

Haywood snapped his jaw up to swallow and laughingly observe, “Direct little thing, isn’t she?”

“I haven’t decided about him yet,” he confessed, leaning back and considering his friend. “What are your thoughts on him?”

“I watched him ride in a while ago. He sets a horse pretty good.”

“I’m flattered, Lady Simone. And may I say that you have a most discerning eye.”

She arched a raven-wing brow and looked back at Drayton. “Can I have a horse?”

Oh! Another bloody brilliant plan! “All ladies are expected to know how to ride.”

“I’m not goin’ to do any of that prissy sideways-in-the-saddle rubbish,” she announced, standing straight to plant her feet and cross her arms over her midriff. “I like my neck and don’t want it broke.”

“Oh, my,” Haywood said, chuckling. “You do need my help. Desperately so.” Drayton was about to point out that Haywood was going to be the one in need of rescuing when the man’s gaze shot past him and lit up like the London Bridge.