Cavendish Brothers 02 - To Enchant an Icy Earl

To Enchant an Icy Earl
~ Catherine Gayle

To Charley, Clayton, Mr. Ed, Mike,
J.T., and all of the other men who’ve come into my life with walls
around your hearts that could rival the Great Wall of China. Thank
you for teaching me to take out my tiny chisel and hammer and begin
to break through. Thank you for trusting me to do it.

“
Fordingham, you look like
you could use a drink.” Viscount Dering made to clap a hand over
Fordingham’s shoulder, but stopped himself just before he made
contact—most likely due to the frosty glare aimed squarely in his
direction. “Come, we’ll play a hand of
Vingt-et-un
. Get foxed together. Put
a little life in your eyes.”

But little did Dering know that
Tristan Cavendish, the fourth Earl of Fordingham, had no desire to
get foxed or play cards, or do anything else whatsoever with the
viscount tonight…or ever at all, for that matter. Whether it was
possible to put “a little life in his eyes” or not was a matter
Fordingham held in sincere doubt. He briefly passed his gaze over
the entirely-too-jovial man, lifting a single eyebrow in practiced
and perfected disdain, and then stoically returned his attention to
the entryway to Godfrey House. “Not tonight.”

Running off to the card room would be
counter-productive. He was here tonight for one reason and one
reason only: to compel his wayward brother Wesley to meet with him,
by force if necessary. Doing so would require Fordingham to be
present amongst the other revelers here at the soiree upon Wesley’s
arrival. It would be entirely too easy otherwise for the younger
brother to learn of the elder’s presence and subsequently make his
escape, with Fordingham being none the wiser until it was too
late.

As that very thing had already
happened in some manner or another twice since the Little Season
began, Fordingham had no intention of allowing another opportunity
to slip through his fingers.

Dering, however, did not scamper off
as he ought to have done after Fordingham’s dismissal of him.
Instead, he let out something which sounded distinctly like a
chuckle. “You can’t think to stand there scowling all night. You’ll
scare off all the ladies.”

Fordingham turned the full weight of
his aforementioned scowl upon the cloyingly affable gentleman who
refused to leave him be but did not deign to respond.

The glare finally obtained the
much-sought-after success. Dering gave a twitchy inclination of his
head and then left with no further interruption to Fordingham’s
solitary objective.

With one hand, Fordingham reached up
and adjusted his cravat—not that such an adjustment was necessary.
His cravat was perfectly knotted, as always. He would never have
left the confines of his London home otherwise. Straightening the
neck cloth simply gave him something to do other than stand
stock-still and stare with his oh-so-dreadful scowl at the other
inhabitants of the room. Perhaps he would draw less attention if he
weren’t so thoroughly imperturbable—if he did something with
himself. At least that was the reasoning he used within his own
mind for his actions.

Alas, adjusting the cravat took a mere
moment to complete, and then he was yet again standing with his
back to the wall with his hands clasped behind him and an impassive
expression fixed upon his countenance.

A few others drew close to him
including Godfrey, the host for the night’s soiree. Fordingham paid
none of them any mind, and soon enough they all left. Just as
everyone and everything in his life had always done.

Finally he saw Wesley, with his wife
at his side, coming through the entryway. In atypical fashion,
Fordingham actually noticed the chit first. Her dull brown hair and
shy demeanor made her easy to recognize as the Pritchards’
housemaid who’d been only too happy to aid Wesley’s rapid descent
into madness.

Admittedly, that wasn’t a fair
assessment of her character. She was no longer a housemaid, but was
now the wife of a gentleman. Fordingham had decided months ago to
release the resentments he felt over Wesley’s duplicity. In order
to succeed in his endeavor, he would have to begin seeing Wesley’s
wife in the new light she’d recently acquired.

Learning her name might be
helpful in order to accomplish this objective—a realization which
emphasized yet another thing over which Fordingham could hate his
long-deceased father. The new Mrs. Cavendish might have been a mere
servant once upon a time, but she was still a
person
, and people had names. Yet
until recently, he’d never seen servants as people and had only
seen fit to learn the names of those servants with whom he was most
likely to be forced to interact.

Much had changed in Fordingham’s life
of late.

Then Wesley followed his wife through
the door, all dark and devilish looking, just like the blackguard
Father had painted him to be so many years ago—an image Fordingham
had been only too willing to allow his brother to maintain for
quite some time.

Too long.

Fordingham took off across
the room to meet them while Wesley and his wife were still involved
with greeting Lady Godfrey. If he caught them with members of
the
ton
surrounding them all, surely they would stay long enough to
hear him out without causing a scene.

Just before he drew close enough to
speak to them sans shouting, the woman looked up. Her eyes widened
as they met his and she tensed, no doubt alerting her husband to
the fact that something was amiss.

Wesley turned. Fordingham could tell
the precise moment that recognition struck his brother—Wesley’s
eyes hardened to black slits, his jaw tensed, and he wrapped a
protective arm around his wife’s waist, nearly drawing her behind
him in an overly familiar gesture for such a public
gathering.

So perhaps Wesley did intend to make a
scene. Or, perchance, he simply hadn’t thought through what he
would do in such a circumstance. He’d always been a bit
hotheaded.

Fordingham ought to have expected this
very reaction. His brother had been avoiding him for a full week
now, even instructing the servants to bar him from the townhouse
Danby had provided the new couple so that Wesley could pursue his
political interests.

Yet oddly enough, this behavior still
took Fordingham unaware.

“
Mrs. Cavendish,” he said
as warmly as he could manage, though admittedly his tone was far
from warm. He’d never been shown any affection, so how could he
know how to give any in return? “So good to see you here this
evening. And you, brother.”

“
What do you want?” Wesley
barked in response. The slits of his eyes somehow narrowed further,
a clear indication that his impending rage was preparing to be set
forth.

Fordingham shook his head slightly,
taking Mrs. Cavendish by the elbow and guiding her into a more
private alcove with the assurance that his brother would
follow.

He was wrong in his
assumption.

Wesley’s hand came down
over his, taking his fingers in a vise-like grip and forcefully
removing them from Mrs. Cavendish’s elbow. “You will
never
touch my wife again
if you value your life, Tris.”

It took every ounce of restraint he
had not to counter Wesley’s use of his Christian name with a
reminder that he was Fordingham and had been for some time now.
Some habits and beliefs had been so fully beaten into him by his
father, he wondered if he could ever truly be free of
them.

Moments like these left him feeling
jealous of his brother, for whatever reason. Jealous of the spare?
The commoner hell-bent on being a Whig revolutionary? It made no
sense, particularly since Father had beaten Wesley, too. His
beatings had been even more harsh and more frequent than those
Fordingham received. But the beatings seemed to have had no effect
upon his brother. Not in the way they’d had upon
Fordingham.

No matter what Father had wished him
to believe and say and do, Wesley had kept his own beliefs, done as
he wished, remained fully and truly himself.

But who was Tristan Cavendish?
Tristan—the man—no longer existed. He’d been left behind so long
ago there were no more remnants floating about in the
ether.

Only Fordingham remained: an unfeeling
earl, resolutely alone in the world; a peer of the realm who valued
his position above all, just as Father had insisted upon. No matter
how much had heretofore changed in his life, an immeasurable amount
of change must still take place.

Nevertheless, with as much
cool detachment as he could muster, Fordingham relinquished his
hold on Mrs. Cavendish and then eyed his brother for a moment
before returning his gaze to the lady. “I wish to speak with
you.
Both
of you,”
he added before his brother could object to Fordingham wanting to
speak with Wesley’s bride alone. “You will join me for supper
tomorrow at Fordingham House.”

“
It’s customary for
invitations to be given as requests,” Wesley grumbled, with more
than just the hint of a threat coloring his words.

And he was likely right. Politeness,
customs, general courtesy—these were all things Father had taught
him to ignore, behaviors Father had done his best to wash from
Fordingham’s person and toss out with the bathwater.

The Earl of Fordingham
issues commands, not requests. Conferring his presence upon those
below his station is an honor for them—one which is to be granted
sparingly and with a great deal of forethought as to the potential
consequences.