Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) (3 page)

It quickly all came back to him—he’d fallen asleep on the sofa in the next room as planned, but had must have wandered back to his own bed while half-asleep. Now he was in a very compromising position with the mysterious girl he and Alfred rescued from the street the night before.

Gingerly, he removed his hand from the girl’s chest but it was too late.

She opened her eyes, a look of terror in their golden-brown depths. Then she screamed.

Beckett sprang from the bed like a cat. The girl jumped up as well, not realizing her nakedness until she was standing. She screamed again, grabbing the blanket and wrapping it hurriedly around herself. She stared at Beckett as if he was the devil himself.

Monty skittered up, and tail wagging, barked at all the commotion.

“Who are you?” she shrieked, grabbing a nearby candlestick. “Stay away from me—or I swear I’ll bash your head in!”

“Please refrain, madam,” Beckett said. “You will ruin my coiffure, not to mention my health.”

“I said, stay away!” she yelled, brandishing the candlestick when he took a step closer.

“I’m staying away” Beckett answered. “Far, far away over here. Now, be a good girl and put that thing down.”

“Why? So you can ravish me again?” she shrieked incredulously, pulling the blanket closer around her naked body.

“Ravish you? No, no—you misunderstand. I can explain everything, but you must be quiet!” He half-shouted, half-whispered his words, not wanting to wake the household.

“I will not be quiet until you explain who you are and why you’ve brought me here! And what have you done with my clothes?” she demanded.

“Ah, yes,” Beckett replied. “Your clothes… I’m afraid they’re not here at the moment.”

“Not here?” she said. “I suppose they grew tired of my company and simply walked away?”

Beckett tried not to laugh, but the effort seemed to rile the girl’s anger even more. She grabbed a little clock and launched it at his head. Beckett ducked, and just missed having his face rearranged by the marble timepiece.

He stood straight again and whistled. The girl had an impressive aim.

“So you intend to keep me prisoner like this?” she asked heatedly. “Am I to spend the rest of my days naked in your rooms?”

“Don’t put ideas into my head,” he answered smoothly.

Hartley’s voice echoed in the hallway, “No, no, Lady Thornby, don’t go in there!”

The door creaked open. In his strangest nightmare, Beckett could not have imagined what he would see there, standing in the hall behind his worried valet.

His mother and his solicitor.

They stared with pale, bloodless faces at the scene before them. Beckett realized what it must look like, standing there with a beautiful, half-naked woman in his bedchamber. Of course, that fact that he was bare-chested himself wouldn’t help, either.

“Oh,…” his mother cried, her hand to her mouth. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted in a heap of ribbons and lace.

As Hartley quickly attended to Lady Thornby, Mr. Livingston of Livingston, Farraday & Peel stared at the shocking scene with bulging eyes, and Martha, the portly cook, covered her mouth with a flour-stained hand.

Alfred appeared in the hallway as well, and seemed quite amused by the scene.

Monty skittered around the room, still wagging his tail and barking at the girl in the blanket. She fearlessly brandished the heavy candlestick, sizing up the new arrivals as if to choose who first to clobber.

“Monty, quiet!” Beckett said.

The dog hushed, but everyone else seemed to take it as a cue to pelt Beckett with questions, though Lady Thornby was still out cold.

“—What is going on, sir?” said Livingston.

“—Oh, m’lord, who is that lady? What shall we do?” said Martha.

“—I demand to know who all of you people are!” shrieked the girl.

“I said, quiet, all of you!” Beckett commanded. “Martha, would you take the young miss into my chamber and try to quiet her nerves?”

“My nerves don’t need quieting,” the girl retorted, eyeing the cook distrustfully.

“Come on, now, miss,” Martha said. “Just do what the master asks.”

“He’s not my master,” she said haughtily. “He hasn’t even told me who he is.”

“Lord Beckett Thornby, at your service,” Beckett said, and made a grand, sweeping bow.

“That name means nothing to me,” she replied, hotly. The blanket slipped farther down her shoulder, and she fought to pull it up. “How do I even know that you are who you say you are?”

“I can vouch for Lord Thornby’s identity, madam,” Mr. Livingston said. “I am his solicitor, and have been for many years. He is of the utmost character and breeding, I assure you.”

“I don’t care if he’s the regent himself,” the girl replied. “He has brought me here against my wishes, and now I want to leave.”

“No one is stopping you, Miss…” Beckett prodded.

She sidestepped the question. “You know I can’t leave. I haven’t any clothes—thanks to you, Lord Thornby.”

“We shall procure you some clothes, then,” Beckett assured. “And you may do as you wish. But I insist that you stay for breakfast. My reputation would be ruined if it became known I didn’t properly entertain my guests.”

She seemed to weigh her options, then nodded her agreement.

“A pot of strong tea for our guest, then, Martha,” Beckett said.

Still clutching the candlestick, the girl followed Martha from the room.

“And you thought bringing her home was a good idea,” Alfred whispered into Beckett’s ear.

“It seems I’ve made nothing but a mess of this,” Beckett observed.

“I did try to warn you,” Alfred said, grinning/

Beckett glared at his friend. “I’m glad you find this amusing.” Then he asked his solicitor, “Livingston, what exactly are you doing here, at this hour of the morning?”

“My lord,” offered Mr. Livingston. “It is well past noon. I met Lady Thornby as she was coming to your door. It was then that I was able to share with her the good news.”

“What good news is that, Livingston?” Beckett asked, thinking he was due for some.

“Why, of your inheritance, my lord,” the solicitor replied.

“I haven’t got an inheritance, man. That’s my whole problem.”

“Oh, but you do, sir,” Livingston said. “Your mother’s cousin, the Earl of Ravenwood, has died without any heirs of his body, leaving you the next in line.”

Beckett shook his head. “Lord Ravenwood has both a son and a grandson, Livingston. You are terribly misinformed.”

“Actually, my lord, I am very well-informed,” Livingston said, unfazed. “The earl’s son, Lord Haughton, was killed in a boating accident only days before Lord Ravenwood’s own death. Unfortunately, Lord Haughton’s only son was with him and also perished in the accident. I have the honor, my lord, of naming you heir to the sixth earl of Ravenwood.”

Beckett stood back on his heels. “Is this some kind of joke? Alfred, did you put him up to this?”

“I assure you, it is not,” the solicitor replied.

“Oh… I have swooned…” Lady Thornby murmured, regaining consciousness.

Beckett crouched down beside her, assisting Hartley as he struggled to raise Lady Thornby to a sitting position.

“Mother, are you alright?” Beckett asked, daintily adjusting her lace cap from where it had fallen over her eye.

He was rewarded with a hearty slap across the cheek. Well, he thought, as he rubbed the stinging flesh, at least his mother was feeling better.

“I am not alright, Beckett,” Lady Thornby said haughtily. “Thanks to you and your disgraceful shenanigans.”

The portly lady rose to her feet with much grunting and groaning, pushing away those who tried to help her.

Lady Thornby pointed an accusing finger at her son. “I want to know one thing. Who is that disgraceful woman?”

“How do you know she’s disgraceful?’ he asked, purposely trying to irritate his mother.

“Because she was not wearing any clothes, Beckett. She was clad in only a bed sheet!” Lady Thornby retorted.

Beckett shrugged. “Newborn babies arrive into the world unclothed. If your theory is correct, then babies are also disgraceful, simply because they do not yet possess a wardrobe.”

Lady Thornby’s eyes narrowed. “This is no time for your silly games, my boy. You are trying to distract me from the problem at hand. I saw a half-dressed hussy in your bedchamber. What in the world should I think?”

“The opposite of what you are thinking,” Beckett said dryly.

Lady Thornby huffed, saying, “You have not yet answered my question, Beckett. Who is that woman, and how did she end up in this house?”

“The girl was unconscious when we found her,” Beckett explained. “Alfred and I brought her home and we took her straight to bed—I mean,
put
her straight to bed. I went to sleep in the sitting room, but I must have returned to my own bed without realizing.”

“You expect me to believe that?” his mother asked.

Beckett continued, “I expect you to trust me, yes. I don’t know who she is, but I’m sure of one thing—she’s no strumpet. She obviously doesn’t live in the street, or she would have been in much worse shape. Her dress was not in tatters, but looked quite finely made. It was merely soiled.”

“That only proves that she’s new at the profession and she has a skilled seamstress,” Lady Thornby replied peevishly.

“You’re wrong, Mother,” Beckett said “and I won’t apologize for my actions. She may have died if we had left her in the street. You know I can’t abandon a creature in need.”

“You want me to believe she’s another one of your strays?” Lady Thornby shrieked, disbelief in her eyes. “I am getting old, but my brain is far from addled. I saw what I saw. And what’s worse, Mr. Livingston saw it as well.”

“Well, I’m sure Livingston can be trusted to keep this quiet.” Beckett gave a pointed look to the solicitor. “And now that I’m the earl of Ravenwood, what does it matter how many strays I take in—or if they happen to be animal or human?”

“Actually, my lord, you aren’t the earl quite yet,” Livingston said.

“But you said that I was the heir,” Beckett replied.

“So you are, my lord, but there is a stipulation in the sixth earl’s will, which is quite standard,” Livingston explained. “The will specifies that the heir must be married in order to inherit, or the estate will immediately pass to your cousin, Mr. Coles of Dorsetshire. In fact, I have already received a letter from his solicitor regarding execution of the earl’s will. Since Mr. Coles is already married, my lord, I would hasten to find yourself a bride.”

Lady Thornby grabbed her son’s arm. “I’m sure the Honorable Miss Cordelia Haversham will take you back, under the circumstances.”

“Mother, I will choose my own bride, if you please,” Beckett said stiffly. “Cordelia Haversham is the last woman in the world that I’d marry. And you well know the reason why.”

“But that dreadful business is all behind us now,” Lady Thornby said, waving her hand in dismissal. “If only I had known that your father had less sense for numbers than a chicken, I could have stopped him from investing in his reckless schemes. But once Cordelia learns that our fortunes have been restored, I’m sure she’ll reinstate your engagement. Her mother has been like a sister to me—we are such close friends. And Cordelia would make a wonderful countess!”

“Mother, I would sooner marry that girl in there!” Beckett pointed at the closed door of his bedchamber.

“Oh, don’t talk flummery, Beckett,” Lady Thornby admonished.

“Perhaps it’s not flummery,” Beckett said, enjoying the look of horror that had crossed his mother’s face. “Perhaps I am quite serious about the idea.”

“Fuddle-duddle!” she replied. “It is not your place to choose a bride, especially when that bride will be the next countess of Ravenwood.”

“But it is my place to be led to the altar in a yoke and put to stud, I suppose,” he retorted.

“Beckett…remember yourself!” she sputtered.

“I should be so lucky as to forget,” Beckett said, folding his arms across his chest. “It will be up to me to decide, Mother, not you, or the ton, or anyone else. But mark me well, whichever bride I choose, it will certainly not be the Honorable Miss Cordelia Haversham.”

His mother’s eyes flashed. “I’ve always known you’d be a disappointment to me, Beckett. And now, you’ve ruined the one thing that would have made me happy—to bring Cordelia into the family where she belongs. But if you’re as intent on ruining your life as your father was, well then, I wish you luck.”

“Father did the best he could for us, Mother,” Beckett said. “He was a kind-hearted man who made the mistake of trusting a swindler. He didn’t mean to leave us penniless.”

“Well, you certainly are your father’s son,” Lady Thornby said coldly. “You’ve done nothing but embarrass me from the time you could crawl. Always courting trouble, with complete disregard for the scandals you’ve caused. Well, now you’re going to create a real sensation, aren’t you? Go on, marry that little trollop in there, or any other hussy you like. It’s none of my concern.”