When the Marquess Met His Match (3 page)

He gave a laugh. “Are you acquainted with my father, Lady Featherstone?”

“I have met him. But we are not well acquainted, no. Still, I cannot see how discussing the matter with him would be a less desirable course than marrying for money.”

“I’m not the first person to seek marriage for material considerations, madam,” he shot back, frustrated by her resentment toward him when surely many of her clients had sought out her help for the exact same reasons as he. “As for my father, he and I have not spoken a word to each other in person for over eight years and, let me assure you, we both prefer it that way. As for persuading him . . .” Nicholas paused and leaned forward, meeting her gaze with a hard one of his own. “I would crawl to the devil before I would ask that man for a brass farthing. I realize that a marriage based on material considerations is not ideal, but if both parties are honest about their reasons for marrying from the very start and freely choose to marry for those reasons, there is nothing dishonorable about it. Besides, as I said, I have no choice. I can live off of my credit for a while, but after that, I shall be destitute. In the normal course of events, coming to a marriage broker is not how I would go about finding a wife, but I have few options. There—”

“How would you go about it?” she interrupted. “Finding a wife, I mean? In the normal course of events?”

“Not society’s way.” Before she could probe further, he went on, “And I fail to see how that matters at this stage. As I said, I must marry, and as quickly as possible. I haven’t the time, nor—I must confess—the inclination to engage in society’s tedious rituals of proper courtship.”

“And you believe that coming to me enables you to avoid those rituals?” She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You think it’s as simple as that?”

“Isn’t it?” Nicholas frowned in bafflement. “You are a marriage broker. I am the son of a duke. I wish to engage you in the task of finding me a suitable wife—that is, one who is rich, preferably pretty, and willing to part with some of her wealth in order to obtain a higher place in society, and later, a duchess’s coronet. I will, of course, pay you a handsome commission out of the marriage portion. This seems to me a straightforward business arrangement and something you have facilitated many times before. Call me thick, but I fail to see what is complicated about it.”

She made a sound of derision. “You, sir, are nothing but a fortune hunter.”

“At least I am prepared to be an honest one,” he countered. “I am willing to lay bare my situation for my future bride. If you can manage to find me one who is also prepared to be honest about her motives, there should be no cause for concern. And it’s not as if you’ve shown any compunction about arranging material marriages in the past. The Duke and Duchess of Margrave, for example, or—”

“The duke and duchess made no material arrangement! And neither have any of the other couples I have brought together.”

“Surely you don’t believe that,” he said, but she was glaring daggers at him, and he gave an incredulous laugh. “By God, perhaps you do believe it. Lady Featherstone, how can you have lived in England this long, arranged matches for countless peers, and still believe that marriage on this side of the pond is anything but a material arrangement? It’s certainly not an affair of the heart. Believe me,” he added, unable to stop the bitter edge that entered his voice, “I know.”

“I, too, know all about marriage on this side of the pond, sir. I do not need you to explain it to me. And let me assure you that I am not in the least romantic. I am practical. I fully recognize that money plays a certain part in British matrimony, but my friends and the men they married formed unions based on far more than material considerations. Those couples had affection—”

“Affection?” he interrupted, diverted and amused by her choice of words. “Well, I daresay affection would impel any man to the altar.”

She set her jaw. “Laugh if you like.”

Nicholas hid his amusement at once. “No, no, your approach sounds very logical,” he said, trying to sound appropriately grave. “But you do make me wonder . . .” He paused, and his gaze slid to her gorgeous mouth. “What of passion?”

A rosy tint washed into her cheeks, showing that he’d rattled her cool complacency at last. “Passion is not really relevant to matrimony.”

He laughed again. Her comment was so absurd, he couldn’t help it. “Since most British peers marry in the hope of producing an heir, I think passion is highly relevant.”

Her expression hardened. “Passion does not last. Therefore, it makes an inadequate basis for matrimony. To those who honor me by seeking my advice, I recommend they base marriage on a solid foundation of sincere affection, shared interests, and like minds.”

It was clear that teasing her was not helping his cause. “Can we at least agree that marriage should be approached sensibly?” he asked. “From that standpoint, surely you would be able to arrange several suitable introductions.”

“I think not.” She rose to her feet. “I do not assist fortune hunters, even supposedly honest ones. I cannot help you, Lord Trubridge. I wonder why you think I would be willing to do so.”

Nicholas tilted his head back to look up at her. “And I wonder why I am summarily dismissed for desiring the same sort of arrangement aspired to by many others who have sat in this drawing room.”

She did not reply, and it was clear from her stony expression that there was no chance further discussion would change her mind. A pity, for she could have smoothed his way back into society and made this whole business so much easier, but it wasn’t meant to be. He’d simply have to go about finding his wife another way.

“Very well,” he said, and stood up. “I shall have to conduct my search without your assistance.”

“Terrible of me to expect you to find your own wife, I know,” she said, her voice taking on the dulcet sweetness of sarcasm. “I fear you shall now be forced to endure those tedious, proper courtship rituals, despite your contempt for them. I must confess I shall quite enjoy observing your attempts, Lord Trubridge.”

“I shall endeavor to be as entertaining as possible for you.”

“Do.” Now she chose to smile, and it was a smile of satisfaction, as if she’d won some sort of victory. “But I feel compelled to warn you that I shan’t make your quest an easy one.”

“So, if I take your meaning, you are not only refusing to help me; you intend to block my efforts?”

Her smile widened. “In every way possible.”

If she hoped her words would intimidate him into giving up his quest, she was mistaken. “Are you threatening me, Lady Featherstone?” he asked, smiling back at her.

“Take it any way you like.”

“Very well then, I shall take it as a challenge. And I have never been able to resist a challenge. But I’m not sure what you can do to stop me,” he added, baiting her, hoping she would reveal her strategy so he would know just what he would be up against. “I appreciate that you are disinclined to help me, but I fail to see what you could do to prevent me from finding a wife by my own efforts?”

Her smile vanished, and her eyes flashed like cool, polished steel. “I shall make sure that any young lady you are considering knows just what sort of man you are, of your scandalous past, the dishonorable reasons for your courtship, the mercenary quality of your intentions, and just what a horrible husband you would make.”

He was stung by this scathing and wholly unjustified summation of his character, but he didn’t show it. “You must do as your honor dictates, of course,” he said in his most amiable fashion, “but now that the gauntlet has been thrown, let me say that I don’t think your mission will prove quite as successful as you imagine.”

“No?”

“No. You are assuming I will follow society’s customary courtship rituals, but I have no intention of doing so.”

“What do you mean?”

“I will not be conducting a
proper
courtship at all. In fact,” he added, his smile widening as he relished her shocked face, “I believe I shall conduct one that is as deliciously improper as possible.” He winked. “It’s more fun that way.”

“Oh, you are a devil,” she breathed, her hands clenching into fists at her sides, her expression one of barely controlled outrage. “A wicked, black-hearted rake.”

“No point in denying it,” he said with a shrug. “Many people came to that conclusion about my character long ago, including you, it seems.”

“With good reason, sir!”

She knew nothing about the circumstances that had led to the tarnishing of his reputation nor his reasons for allowing the rumors to stand, and he damned well wasn’t going to launch into explanations now. “Either way, it won’t make a particle of difference. Women love a rake who is willing to reform. Especially if he can evoke her passion.” His gaze slid to her mouth. “Mutual affection, like minds, and shared interests be damned.”

With that, he turned and walked out, leaving the prim and proper Lady Featherstone spluttering behind him.

U
PON
B
ELINDA’S ARRIVAL
in England a decade earlier, the Viscountess of Montcrieffe (formerly Miss Nancy Breckenridge of New York), had been kind enough to guide her through her first few precarious years in British society. She had taught Belinda the three most important precepts of a true lady, to wit: a lady never displayed shock or surprise, never gave way to fits of temper, and never, ever contradicted a gentleman before dinner.

Belinda, in those days a young, withdrawn, terribly insecure girl, hadn’t had any trouble taking those precepts to heart. But now, as she stared at the empty doorway through which the Marquess of Trubridge had just departed, it occurred to her that she’d just broken all three of those rules as easily as one might break an egg.

Not that she could find cause to regret it, for his words about conducting an improper courtship could only mean one thing: he intended to seduce and compromise a girl into marriage, and that would give any woman, lady or not, cause to lose her temper. Still, Belinda knew anger wouldn’t serve her well in these circumstances. She had to think clearly, plan strategically, and find a way to stop him.

Women love a rake.

His words came back as if to mock her, and Belinda sank down onto the settee with a sigh. Trubridge was right about that, and she knew it better than anyone. Experience was a bitter teacher.

Charles had been a rake, too, handsome as sin and charming as the devil, with blood more blue than any of the New York Knickerbockers who’d looked down their noses at Miss Belinda Hamilton of Cleveland, Ohio.

Race week at Saratoga was one of the few places where a girl with no background and plenty of money might mingle with those of higher social status. For a girl like Belinda, however, such opportunities had meant little, for she’d been far too shy to take advantage of them.

When the Seventh Earl of Featherstone, on a tour of the States at the time, had singled her out for his attentions on the verandah of Saratoga’s Grand Union Hotel, it had taken only one fifteen-minute conversation where he did most of the talking for her to fall head over heels in love with him.

When he’d pulled her into a darkened corner of the garden at a cotillion a scant six weeks after meeting her, his bold manner and sensuous kisses had been the headiest experience of her life. And when, after that brief but passionate courtship, he’d asked her to become the Countess of Featherstone and come live with him in an English castle, he’d presented it as such a romantic, dreamy fairy tale that she’d accepted on the spot without even noticing that his proposal had included no actual declaration of love.

But he had assured her father that his desire to marry her had nothing to do with her fortune, and her father, never good at facing unpalatable possibilities, had taken him at his word. As for herself, Belinda had been so young, so infatuated with Charles and so enamored with the British aristocracy he represented, that she’d convinced herself of all sorts of romantic tripe about what being his wife and countess would be like.

Neither she nor her father had known the precarious nature of Featherstone’s finances and how dissolute his character until it was too late. Only after the wedding had she learned of her new husband’s four mortgaged estates, two mistresses, and three hundred thousand pounds of debt. Left with no choice but to honor the marriage agreement, her father had paid off Featherstone’s debts and handed over the rest of her dowry, which his son-in-law had thoroughly enjoyed spending.

By the time Jeremiah Hamilton lost his fortune, the money from her marriage settlement was gone. Even before then, Charles had abandoned any pretenses of gentleman-like behavior or husbandly regard toward his young American wife. He had also made clear that he had no inclination to provide her with an income of her own.

Left to her own devices, she’d managed to direct her anger and disillusionment into a very lucrative source of income for herself, but that wasn’t why she’d become a marriage broker.

Fortune hunters were the bane of any heiress’s existence, and it had become the mission of her life to assist as many young ladies as possible in making wiser choices than she had. She informed American mothers as to the character of young British gentlemen, she advised fathers on how to properly tie up the money, and she did her best to guide marriage-minded American heiresses toward those British gentlemen of good and moral character, the men most likely to bring them not only social acceptance, but also lasting happiness, and she was proud of the fact that nowadays any American girl determined to marry a British lord knew her first call once arriving in London was upon Lady Featherstone of Berkeley Street.

Her recollections about Featherstone led to an inevitable comparison with Trubridge, and she found their similarities a sobering reminder of her duty. She had to make good on her threat and stop that man, but when she thought of his tawny eyes and devastating smile, she knew it was not going to be easy. There were quite a few heiresses who would happily hand over their hearts and their dowries in exchange for a handsome man with a title in the euphemistic hope their love would be returned.