Duke of Thorns (Heiress Games 1) (8 page)

That set him back, unexpectedly, on his heels. No proper woman would ask him, a man they all believed was capable of compromising innocents, to take a turn on the balcony with her.

Had he missed some clue about her? Lucretia didn’t have the look of a fortune-hunter or a social climber. She was too forthright — too forthright for flirtation, or any of the other tricks Ariana had used. But from the way her hand fluttered to her stomach, as though adding support to her diaphragm as she held her breath, he sensed her nerves.

And a dangerous chasm opened up at his feet.

He took a step back from her, instinctually. But even though he could say the most appalling things to the nicest individuals, he still felt a twinge of remorse when her eyes flickered.

“You wouldn’t want to walk with me, Miss Briarley,” he warned. “I have a reputation.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, even though she shouldn’t have acknowledged it. “Lady Maidenstone, will you accompany us?”

Lady Maidenstone leaned in and whispered something to Lucretia. Lucretia shook her head sharply and stood up, holding her hand out until the girl took it. When Lady Maidenstone finally gave in, Lucretia turned to Thorington expectantly.

There was nothing for it. He escorted the women from the room, knowing that every eye followed them but acting supremely unconcerned by that fact. But as soon as they were through the French doors and standing far enough from the open windows to avoid eavesdroppers, he turned back to Lucretia.

“I should warn you, Miss Briarley, that if you think to trap me into marriage, I shall refuse to offer for you. You’ll be ruined if you attempt it.”

Lucretia’s mouth dropped open. “Do you really think me capable of that?”

Thorington shrugged. “I think most people are capable of most anything, given the right pressure. You are under pressure, are you not?”

She exchanged a glance with Lady Maidenstone. The blonde gave her a speaking glare before turning away from them to look out over the formal gardens. She didn’t leave them unchaperoned, but it was clear she wanted no part in whatever Lucretia planned.

Lucretia sighed. “I wouldn’t trap you. But I’ll admit that I would like to marry you. Would you consider offering for me?”

Thorington, for once, was outflanked. “I beg your pardon, Miss Briarley?”

She turned to face him. The sunlight in her eyes showed he hadn’t cowed her. Instead, she was determined, even though there was something in her face that suggested she’d taken a strong dislike to him. He’d heard enough about her to understand her desire to save Maidenstone for herself. But the purely mercenary set of her mouth, so unusual for a sheltered woman of her age and class, was a shock.

“You may ask me for my hand as though I hadn’t offered it, if you prefer,” she said. “I know some men would take offense at being offered for. But I’ve heard you aren’t stiff with tradition.”

“I am flattered,” he said. “But I’ve no wish for a bride.”

“Even if it brought you enough money to save your estate?”

“My estate isn’t in any danger.”

He said it easily enough. But Lucretia didn’t seem convinced. “You asked for an invitation to this party, which must mean you need to marry one of us. What I’ve read about you suggests you’ve had a run of bad luck. And you were the only guest whose correspondence from his business manager preceded him. Marry me and your luck will change.”

“I make my own luck,” Thorington said. “Marrying you isn’t in the cards.”

She looked up at him, shading her eyes with her hand. She looked as young as she was for a moment — only twenty-three, and a rather sheltered twenty-three. He didn’t have a conscience, but he had enough imagination left to speculate about her — about how her upbringing, and too much time with the irascible Earl of Maidenstone, might make her too bold in some ways, too innocent in others.

But helping her wasn’t his plan, unless Anthony decided she was the one for him.

She still hadn’t spoken. He shifted his weight and tried for a smile. “I would eat you alive, my dear. Find a boy who will worship you. Any number of guests at this party would fit the bill.”

She dropped her hand and shook her head. “They are mostly ineffectual or incompetent. Maidenstone needs someone stronger than that.”

“And your needs?”

“I need Maidenstone,” she said.

Lucretia didn’t embellish her statement. That flinty look was back. If she was too bold for her own good, it came from a vast reservoir of determination. And all her determination was focused on Maidenstone, to the exclusion of all else.

“I wish you happy with the man who may help you to save it,” he said, more gently than he was usually capable of. “But I am not the one for you.”

Lucretia sighed. She looked beyond him, toward the house that loomed behind him. A shadow of emotion moved over her face, passing so quickly that he wouldn’t have seen it had he not been observing her closely.

And he wouldn’t have recognized it if he didn’t feel the same need.

“I can’t lose,” she said, almost to herself. “I mustn’t.”

Lady Maidenstone rejoined them. The girl had taken a few steps away from them during Lucretia’s attempt to proposition him, but she must have heard everything. She took Lucretia’s hand. “Come inside, dear,” she said, sounding older than Thorington knew her to be. She had glared at Lucretia before, but now she was soft, sympathetic. “We shall find someone better able to appreciate your virtues.”

He stayed outside as they returned to the party. For a moment, he considered the idea of marrying Lucretia and giving Callista to Anthony — if Rafe would consent to marry Octavia, they were guaranteed to win Maidenstone Abbey.

But he dismissed that thought as soon as he had it. Rafe didn’t need a wife — he needed something that would soothe his demons, and Thorington didn’t think any of the Briarleys could do it for him. And Lucretia’s dowry couldn’t pull Thorington out of debt for more than a few months.

Still, he sympathized with her, if only a little. She couldn’t have taken it well when her grandfather had set up this contest. She must have taken it even less well that she was forced to play the hostess for the gathering that might see her lose the house.

She was not his concern, though. He needed to capture Callista and convince Anthony to marry her — between Callista and Lucretia, there was no contest. Every fortune-hunter at Maidenstone would target Callista as soon as they saw her.

And he was enough of a fortune-hunter to know she wouldn’t be pleased to be hunted.

CHAPTER FIVE

At a quarter to five, Callie stood outside one of Maidenstone’s drawing rooms and willed herself to focus. Her hair, mostly dry after a bath that had felt woefully quick, was stuffed into the most secure chignon Mrs. Jennings was capable of. She wore her best white muslin, spangled with an intricate design in silver thread down the front and around the hem. Her dressmaker in Baltimore had cut it according to a fashion plate from one of Ackermann’s 1811 volumes. She had never been invited to something to which she might have worn it in Baltimore, and she had looked forward to wearing it here.

But now, she took a deep breath as she stared at the carved door frame. She realized, suddenly, horribly, that if she let it out all at once, she might scream.

Between Lucretia and the man in the woods — a
duke
, because of course he was a duke, and not someone she could avoid for the duration of the party — she’d used up her bravado. She pictured herself walking into a grandly perfect drawing room, with a lot of grandly perfect people, wearing a dress that had once been perfect but was now at least two years out of fashion…

She had thought she was ready for whatever she would have to do to marry someone appropriate for her ends. But the reality of it — the crowd, the surroundings, the man from the woods — wasn’t something she had prepared for.

She let her breath go slowly, through lips pursed tight enough to keep her scream inside. She wasn’t going to let herself fall apart now.

She could do this. She had successfully managed a shipping company. She had run the British blockade. She had survived a sea battle.

Surely she could walk into a drawing room.

Surely she could ignore the way the man — the
duke
— preferred to look at her, as though luring her to her doom.

Callie walked through the open double doors. The sound in the room fell away, then renewed itself with more sibilant undercurrents.

She could tell herself that they weren’t whispering about her. But she didn’t believe it.

“Miss Callista Briarley,” the butler announced in his stiffest, most disapproving tones.

The whispers doubled. They were a current that carried the tidings of her arrival into the farthest reaches of the connected rooms, rippling away from her, uncontrollable.

She instinctively started to twist her hands together in front of her, a defensive posture fit for a penitent instead of a conqueror. But she took a breath and touched the sapphire pendant at her neck instead. It was the bauble Captain Jacobs had promised her from
Crescendo
. It hadn’t convinced her that privateering was a safe endeavor, but she was rather fond of it.

She was more daring than anyone in the room. Surely she could take another step.

She didn’t know where she was going. But she couldn’t hide in the corner. Nor could she avert her eyes from those who examined her as though she was a hideous curiosity in the most macabre curio cabinet.

Briarley contra mundum
. She walked straight ahead, nodding politely at anyone who caught her gaze, proceeding as though she knew what she was doing. She passed through the first drawing room without anyone stopping to greet her.

The second drawing room was no better. The only people she recognized were the Duke of Thorington’s siblings. She steeled herself to join them, hoping Lady Serena and Lady Portia, at least, would be friendly. They hadn’t seemed friendly earlier, but anyone was better than Lucretia.

But before she reached them, a different party intercepted her.

“Miss Briarley,” the first man exclaimed. He grabbed her by both arms and kissed first one cheek, then the other. “I had begun to fear for your health.”

His greeting shocked her, but she reminded herself that this wasn’t Baltimore and she didn’t really know what to expect. So she smiled rather than pushing him away. “No need to fear for my health. I’ve a strong constitution.”

“You very nearly missed the start of the party. I thought I’d given you enough time to reach us, but travel can be so unpredictable.”

She didn’t have any idea who the rest of the party were — another man, who had rolled his eyes as the first man had kissed her, and two beautiful brunettes in exquisite evening dresses. But Callie guessed who the man who’d greeted her must be. “Are you the Duke of Rothwell?”

He bowed. “At your service, cousin.”

Another duke. Maidenstone Abbey was positively rotten with them. He seemed friendly enough, despite his overly proprietary treatment of her cheeks. He was taller than her, but not so tall as to be domineering. An uncharitable person might have said that his hair was red, but in the soft light of an English summer evening the auburn strands were charming rather than unfashionable.

After a pause, she curtsied for him. It was brief, but it was more than she’d done for Thorington. The Duke of Rothwell was family, after all, in a tenuous sort of way — he was her grandmother’s brother’s grandson, which made them second cousins. And she didn’t have a dark urge to do him violence like she did with Thorington.

“You aren’t much for ceremony, are you?” he asked.

“I only find it appealing when it’s deserved, your grace,” she said.

Everyone in his party laughed. To her ears, they sounded charmed rather than judgmental. She unbent another fraction of an inch.

“Spoken like a true daughter of the republic,” the duke responded. “I can’t abide ceremony myself. You must call me Ferguson if you don’t wish to use my title.”

She must have looked startled — such intimacy was usually reserved for only the closest friends. The woman next to him laughed. “Don’t let yourself be shocked by him, Miss Briarley. He asks everyone to call him Ferguson.”

The other man in their party sighed. “You can be shocked, Miss Briarley. I am shocked every day when I remember I am related to him — it must be worse for you, knowing you share bloodlines.”

Ferguson didn’t look offended in the slightest. “I forgot myself. Miss Briarley, allow me to present to you my wife, Madeleine.” He gestured to the woman who had just spoken, smiling as though he couldn’t help but do so when he said her name. “Her cousin is, unfortunately, Lord Salford, but I accept him as the cross I must bear. And he has somehow claimed the lovely Lady Salford as his new wife.”

Madeleine, the Duchess of Rothwell, gave Callie a warm smile as she embraced her — again more affectionately than Callie expected, but genuine enough that Callie slowly began to relax. “I look forward to knowing you better, Miss Briarley. If you Americans can give us advice on how to overthrow our ducal masters, I would appreciate it.”

There was a vaguely French lilt to her voice, but it was her warmth that made her irresistible. Ferguson pulled her close to him. “Careful, Mad,” he warned her, with fake severity. “I think you like being a duchess too much to advocate treason against me.”

“Madeleine should have considered treason before she agreed to marry you,” Lord Salford said drily.

“It’s lucky for us our wives didn’t think too hard about their situations, or you never would have won Prudence,” Ferguson retorted. “Begging your pardon, of course, Lady Salford.”

Prudence, Lady Salford, shrugged. “There’s no accounting for taste, as you like to say.”

For all that they were insulting each other, it was clear that the four held each other in the highest esteem. They were older than her — the women were perhaps in their late twenties, and the men in their mid-thirties. Was it their age that made them so confident? Their titles? Their wealth?