A Season for Sin (13 page)

God forgive me, but I cannot live without my son.

She drew closer to Bellingham and forced herself to smile. “I suppose we should tell Montclief our happy news.”

Suspicion flickered in his blue eyes. “I’ll allow you to reveal the particulars.”

She clasped his arm and faced Montclief. “You need not worry about Justin needing a man to guide him.” She took a deep breath and said, “I have this day accepted Lord Bellingham’s proposal of marriage.”

The woman was mad.

Bell had sensed her desperation climbing as she tried to persuade Montclief to let her keep the boy, but he’d never guessed she would resort to this witless fabrication.

Montclief folded his arms over his chest. “You have been in London for a very short time, Laura. This engagement is sudden, perhaps too sudden.”

“Montclief, I said nothing before because I did not know our relationship would take such a romantic turn,” Laura said. “Lord Bellingham and I met last fall in Hampshire.”

Bell suspected the wayward Justin had learned to lie from his inventive mother.

She regarded Bell with a dazzling smile. “I met him accidentally while visiting one of the shops in the village. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

He nodded, hoping she wouldn’t get too carried away. The less she said the better.

“It was raining,” she said, “and we were stuck in the shop. Having nothing better to do, we struck up a conversation. When the rain stopped, we walked outside and he laid his coat over a puddle for me.” She batted her eyes at him. “That was the moment I fell for my Bellingham.”

She was the worst liar in the Kingdom.

“Laura, this engagement is suspect,” Montclief said.

Bellingham agreed, but he didn’t like Montclief. From the bits she’d revealed, he gathered Montclief had taken no interest in his nephew until now. Most likely, the only reason he’d intervened was because he’d gotten embarrassed when his friend in London sent him the letter about his nephew.

Laura looked quite determined as she gazed into Bell’s eyes. “I would do anything for my Bellingham. Anything,” she added with emphasis.

He most certainly would hold her to that promise.

Montclief addressed him. “Is this true, Bellingham? You have proposed to Laura?”

He almost exposed her as a liar, but he’d seen her hands shake when Montclief had declared he would take the boy away from her. Bell figured the boy’s rebellion would grow far worse under Montclief’s thumb. However, he didn’t want to find himself trapped in a marriage, either. “We are keeping the engagement a secret for the time being,” Bell said. Why not add one more lie to the growing pile?

Laura exhaled in obvious relief. “Yes, we are concealing our engagement in order to give Justin time to get to know Bellingham. We wish Justin to feel at ease with him before we exchange vows. Of course, we shall rely on your discretion, Montclief.”

Montclief narrowed his eyes. “Laura, this engagement still smells fishy to me.” He turned his attention to Bellingham. “What I cannot understand is why Bellingham would act as your accomplice?”

Because I want her in my bed
. Aloud, he said, “Are you implying that our engagement is a criminal act?”

“You know very well what I meant,” Montclief said.

Bell had tolerated Montclief long enough. He strode over to the much shorter man and loomed over him. “You dare to question my word?” he said in a low, warning tone.

Montclief lifted his chin and his nostrils flared. “It is my responsibility to see that my nephew is well cared for and made to behave. I am his legal guardian and the best person to see it done.”

“Really? If your nephew walked in the door would you recognize him?” Bell asked.

Montclief’s face flushed. “You have no say in this, Bellingham. You are no relation to the boy.”

“But when we marry, Bellingham will be Justin’s stepfather,” Laura said. “He will oversee Justin’s activities. Montclief, you need not trouble yourself again.”

In one fell swoop, Bell had acquired a faux fiancée and a rebellious adolescent. He was beginning to feel as if he’d stepped onstage in one of Shakespeare’s comedies.

“Wait,” Montclief said. “I did not agree to this plan.”

“But you said that Justin needed daily male guidance,” Laura said. “With five other boys, your hands are full. You will not be able to give Justin nearly as much attention as my Bellingham. Why, I’m sure he will take the boy under his wings almost immediately,” she said.

Wonderful. Now she’d volunteered him to play nursemaid to a seventeen-year-old.

Montclief regarded them both with a scowl. “I feel certain this engagement is a sham, though I cannot figure out what Bellingham stands to gain.”

Bell wasn’t about to enlighten Montclief.

Montclief sniffed. “Fair warning. I will come to London periodically to see how matters are progressing. If I hear that my nephew is running wild again, I will remove him immediately.”

The man strutted to the door and set his hand on the knob.

Bell couldn’t wait to be rid of him, so that he could collect on Laura’s promise.

Montclief paused and then he looked over his shoulder. “One more thing. I expect there will be no illicit liaisons while my nephew is residing under this roof.”

“How dare you make such an accusation?” Laura said in shocked tones. “I would never engage in immoral conduct.”

She’d conveniently forgotten her promise to him, but he wasn’t about to let her off the hook after she’d involved him in this farce.

“See that you remember it, Laura,” Montclief said. “I trust I need not repeat the consequences.”

When the door shut behind him, Bellingham muttered, “That man is an ass.”

Laura covered her mouth and collapsed on a chair.

When fat tears welled in her eyes, Bell whipped out his handkerchief. “It’s all over.”

Her bottom lip quivered, and then she hastily dabbed his handkerchief at her eyes.

Bell squatted beside her. “The only reason he came here was because his pride took a hit when his friend sent him the letter.”

She folded the handkerchief in a little square. When she tried to hand it back to him, he waved it off.

“He would have t-taken him if you had not been here.”

If Montclief had insisted, there wouldn’t have been a damned thing Bell could have done. Unless she got that boy under control, his guardian would likely remove him. She obviously loved her son and didn’t want to lose him, but Bell wasn’t convinced she was capable of managing wild Justin.

She took a deep breath. “Thank you. How much do you want?”

He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m prepared to pay you. My son means everything to me. Name the price,” she said.

“I do not need money,” he said.

“I insist,” she said. “I must say your idea to keep the engagement a secret was quite brilliant.”

“Frankly, I did it for my own protection.”

She patted his arm. “You need not worry. I have no wish to marry again.”

He rose and helped her to stand.

“Are you certain you do not want some form of compensation?” she asked. “Would five hundred pounds suffice?”

A slow grin tugged at his mouth. “My fortune is such that I will be unlikely to spend it all in my lifetime.”

“You’re a lucky man,” she said, eyeing the door as if she were contemplating escape.

He stepped right in front of her. “I had something else in mind.”

“Oh?” she said.

“Something more pleasurable.”

“Brandy?” she said, her voice a bit squeaky.

His hands closed on her shoulders. “Guess again.”

“Port?”

He drew her closer. “You.”

She gasped. “My lord, I am a respectable widow.”

“You promised to do anything I asked,” he reminded her.

“Surely you would not take advantage of a desperate woman,” she said.

He eyed her figure. She was petite, but she had curves in all the right places. “Oh, yes, I would.”

“What do you want?” she asked.

“This.” Then he claimed her sweet lips.

London, 1816

T
he belles of the Beau Monde had resorted to clumsiness in an effort to snag a ducal husband.

Tristan James Gatewick, the Duke of Shelbourne, entered Lord and Lady Broughton’s ballroom and grimaced. A quartet of giggling
chits stood near the open doors, dangling their handkerchiefs as if poised to drop them. Determined to avoid playing fetch
again, he strode off along the perimeter of the room.

With a long-suffering sigh, he conceded he’d contributed to this national disgrace. Ever since the scandal sheets had declared
him the most eligible bachelor in England, he’d rescued twenty-nine lace handkerchiefs, five kid gloves, and twelve ivory
fans.

If only he could have convinced himself to choose a bride based upon the inelegance of her fumbling, he
might have wedded and bedded the most inept candidate by now. Alas, he could not abide the thought of spending a lifetime
with Her Gracelessness.

He surveyed the crowd looking for the hostess of this grand squeeze, a useless endeavor. The crème de la crème swarmed the
place like bees. The din of voices competed with the lively tune of a country dance, making his ears ring. He’d rather eat
dirt than subject himself to the dubious delights of the marriage mart, but with his thirty-first birthday approaching, he
could no longer pretend he was invincible. The dukedom had been at risk far too long.

Someone tapped a fan on his shoulder. He paused to find Genevieve and Veronica, two of his former mistresses. Seeing them
together, he realized how alike the striking widows looked. Both were tall, dark-haired, and curvaceous. He canvassed the
cobwebs in his brain and realized all of his past lovers had similar attributes. Well, those he could recollect.

Tristan bowed and lifted each of their hands for the requisite air kiss. “Ladies, it is a great pleasure to see you again.”

“Were your ears burning?” Veronica said in an exaggerated boudoir voice. “You are the subject du jour.”

“I am delighted,” he lied. He’d grown increasingly frustrated with the notoriety the papers had whipped up. How the devil
he’d ever find a bride in this circuslike atmosphere evaded him. But find one he must.

Genevieve tittered. “We were comparing you to all of our other gentlemen admirers.”

He’d bedded more than his fare share of mistresses, but this situation was certainly unique among his experiences. “What did
you conclude?”

Genevieve leaned closer and squeezed his arm. “We agreed you were the naughtiest of all our lovers.”

He regarded her with a wicked grin. “Praise indeed.”

Veronica glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “How does it feel to be England’s most sought-after bachelor?”

High-pitched giggling rang out from behind him. He rolled his eyes. Not again.

Genevieve’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Watch out, Shelbourne. A bevy of little misses are stalking you.”

He grimaced. “Rescue me?”

The two women laughed, blew him a kiss, and drifted away, leaving him to the predators. When he turned round, the four silly
chits he’d seen earlier halted and stared at him, agog. Given their youthful faces and puritanical white gowns, he surmised
not one of them was a day over seventeen. He needed a wife, but he’d no intention of robbing the proverbial cradle.

When they continued to gape at him as if he were a Greek statue come to life, he took a step closer. “Boo.”

Their shrieks rang in his ears as he walked off into the crowd. Ignoring the avid stares directed at him, Tristan squeezed
past numerous hot, perspiring bodies, and not the kind one hoped to find naked and willing in bed. With more than a little
regret, he banished thoughts of Naked and Willing in order to concentrate on Virtuous and Virginal. First he must locate Lord
and Lady Broughton. Perhaps his hostess would introduce him to a sensible young lady of good breeding. Perhaps pigs would
fly, too.

He might have avoided all this nonsense if his dear mama had cooperated. When he’d informed her of his bridal requirements
a month ago, she’d swatted him with her fan and told him he had rocks in his head.

A loud bang nearly sent him ducking for cover. Feminine gasps erupted all around him. Alarmed, he sought the source of the
disturbance and realized it was only the slamming of the card room door. The gentleman responsible for this discourteous act
was none other than his oldest friend, Marc Darcett, Earl of Hawkfield.

Tristan hailed Hawk with a wave and walked in that direction. Intent upon reaching his friend, Tristan failed to notice the
impending danger until something crunched beneath his shoe. A quick glance to the floor confirmed his worst fear—the thirteenth
incident of a dropped fan. Damn and blast, he’d crushed it.

He lifted his gaze, expecting a devious mama and her blushing daughter. Instead, a petite young woman with honey-blond hair
stood staring at his shoe. She said something that sounded suspiciously like
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
. With all the voices ringing in his ears, he assumed he’d misheard.