No Marriage of Convenience (6 page)

From the far-reaching frown on Cousin Felicity’s face,
the lady did not appear willing to give up just yet. “Oh, Mason, not even Lady Delander? I’ve had
such
a vexing time trying to outdo her since her niece became betrothed to Lord Penford.” She turned to Riley. “You’d think the lady had arranged the marriage herself, to hear her tell the story. And hear it I do, every time I dine with her.” She turned her imploring wide, blue-eyed gaze on Lord Ashlin.

He shook his head. “Madame Fontaine and I have several matters to discuss before this situation continues any further.”

“Fuss and bother, my boy, you are the worst scold and toady. One would think you a foundling and not an Ashlin to be so strict!” She hurried up a few steps further. “Well, at least I’ll be able to sit in on the girls’ lessons and pick up a thing or two. Mayhap you’ll have four brides from Ashlin Square this Season.” She blushed and turned around on the stairs, looking up and down the steps. “Oh, where was I going?”

Riley, realizing very quickly that since their last meeting Lord Ashlin had changed his mind and was about to cancel their agreement, prompted the lady without hesitation. “The girls?”

Cousin Felicity’s mouth curved into a wide smile. “The girls! Of course. I’ll have your students downstairs in the wink of an eye.” She bustled upward without another glance back.

“Cousin Felicity!” Mason protested, but the lady ignored him.

He let out a deep sigh, one Riley wagered did not bode well for her, as it was followed by Lord Ashlin turning his critical gaze on her. There was something new about the stern set of his jaw that hadn’t been there yesterday—a disapproving severity Riley found more appropriate for a military man than an Oxford don.

He’d obviously found out who she was, or at least who the London gossips thought she was. And now he meant to dismiss her and scrap her theatre to pay his debts.

Then where would she be? Or Aggie? Or Hashim?

She straightened her hat, then smoothed her skirts, calming herself from reproaching him outright for this about-face. Not that she hadn’t fully expected it.

Well, she knew a thing or two about bargaining with men and his lordship was a man, even for all that drivel about his supposed celibacy.

A celibate Ashlin? Utter nonsense!

She tipped her head and glanced up at him shyly. “Is there something wrong, my lord?” she asked in the most dulcet voice she could muster. “I daresay you look unwell this morning. Perhaps you need a tonic or a good rest in the country.”

Stall,
she thought.
Find a way to keep him from discharging you outright.
For if there was one thing of which Riley was certain, she needed him.

Probably more than he needed her.

In her favor, she’d beaten more wily opponents than some owl-eyed earl. And she’d had all night to dream up every argument in the book.

She soon discovered, so had Lord Ashlin.

“Madame Fontaine, I believe I’ve made a terrible mis—” He glanced over her shoulder and she turned as well to see not only the footmen gaping at them, but a good portion of the household staff peering from doorways and alcoves.

Riley couldn’t tell who was garnering more attention, her or Hashim. The gruesome Turk wore his most sinister glare, a ferocious look he loved using to frighten young women or intimidate her more insistent suitors.

She chose to smile graciously at her audience, a gesture that seemed to annoy the Earl even further.

“Belton!” Lord Ashlin all but shouted. “Do we pay these people to gawk and gape?”

The instant the butler stepped from the serving door, the other servants ducked belowstairs or hustled off to whatever duties they were so evidently neglecting.

Lord Ashlin nodded at his butler and returned his cold gaze to her. “Madame, as I was saying, I would like a word with you. In private.” He directed this last order squarely at Hashim.

She turned to her self-appointed protector. “If you don’t mind?”

Hashim eyed Lord Ashlin with a quick head-to-toe appraisal and then nodded his approval for her to continue with Lord Ashlin alone. As Riley followed the Earl into his study, Hashim took his post near the door, assuming his usual stance, his arms folded across his chest, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his jeweled scimitar.

Riley found herself puzzled by the man leading her into his study. Lord Ashlin moved with a fluid, athletic grace, hinting of a well-developed physique beneath his plainly cut black coat and breeches.

Obviously there was more to the professor than just books and exams…

She took the seat he offered her. His desk had been cleared of the unpaid receipts and notes, and she would have said something, if Lord Ashlin hadn’t spoken first.

“Madame Fontaine,” he began, “I have made some inquiries regarding your credentials in preparing my nieces for their debuts—”

“And you find me extremely overqualified,” she interrupted, having anticipated this first argument. She would have wagered her share of the theatre on just what he’d learned, subjects they probably did not cover at the university.

At least not in the classrooms.

School is about to begin, my lord
, she thought, as she scooted her chair a little closer to the wide and imposing oak desk between them.

“Well, your qualifications are certainly…” he paused, as if struggling to find the right word.

Riley took advantage of his discomfort and filled in for him. “I think the word you are looking for is ‘perfect.’ I know you probably think such a task is beneath my considerable
forte
, and I certainly agree with you.” She held up her hand to stave off what appeared to be a counterassault, and he politely let her proceed.

Luckily, Riley suffered no such boundaries as the confines of good manners. She went on unabashedly.

“My lord, I find myself completely indebted to you and your family for your generosity and foresight in supporting our latest production. Therefore I can suffer no artistic vanity over assisting you in such a delightful task.” Riley drew a quick breath and continued before he had a chance to forget his manners and interrupt. “My goodness, when I told my fellow players at the Queen’s Gate about your largesse, the entire company asked, nay, I must tell the truth here,
demanded
that our opening night production be dedicated to you, our dearest patron.”

Lord Ashlin looked anything but honored.

Riley gritted her teeth and fluttered her lashes, hoping the sincerity she’d practiced all night cloaked her words with the measure of truth they lacked.

“I can see from your expression you think we should continue our tradition of bestowing the opening night honors on the Prince.” She nodded thoughtfully. “After all, he will be there, and with you beside him in the Ashlin box, it may be uncomfortable. I assure you, I will smooth
the social waters over with regard to Prinny.” She leaned over the desk, tipped her head so she glanced shyly up from beneath the brim of her hat, and said in her most confidential tones, “The Prince and I are quite close.”

As she let her little white lie slip, she realized her mistake by the sharp look in his eyes.

If she thought he’d looked stern before, his face now took on the qualities of granite as he leveled his gaze at her.

“And it is just that ‘closeness’ with men that I wish to discuss,” he said, jumping in even as she struggled to think of some way of smoothing over her disastrous improvisation.

“My nieces,” he continued, “are sheltered, innocent girls, and I would like them to stay that way—at least until they find themselves married. What my cousin has proposed, using you to enhance their social graces, seemed to be a good idea at first—”

“And it still—” Riley stopped in mid-sentence as she watched one of Lord Ashlin’s eyebrows arch wickedly, the meaning clear.

The Earl cleared his throat. “My brother and sister-in-law took great care in seeing Beatrice, Margaret, and Louisa gently reared so someday they’d take their rightful place in society.” He leaned forward. “And as their guardian, I will not risk their reputations by allowing them to associate with a woman of your character.”

Of her character?

Why the stuffy, priggish, puritanical…

Riley abandoned her original course of flattery and decided to try a different approach. “My lord, I can see you have given this careful thought, but let me be honest with you. The Season is about to begin and London will start
filling with young girls out to find eligible husbands.”

“And what has that to do with retaining your services?”

“Why, everything,” she told him. “While your nieces may be accomplished and beautiful,” at this she paused and smiled, knowing full well if they were real beauties he wouldn’t have hired her in the first place, “they need something to set them apart. Qualities that will allow them to stand out amidst the crowd. To make them Originals.”

“Whatever guidance they require,” he said slowly, “I’m sure my Cousin Felicity will do the job quite admirably.”

“Are we talking about the Cousin Felicity I met, or do you have another?” she asked, hoping to lighten the mood. When he looked neither amused nor appreciative of her observation, she went back to honesty. “Tell me, has your Cousin Felicity ever caught a man’s attention and held it long enough to get him to propose marriage?”

His silence answered her question.

“Well, I have. So many times I’ve lost count. With your cousin’s directions, your nieces will be lucky if they get invited to dance.”

Finally, he looked as if he might be considering her arguments.

She continued in a mad rush. “Given your current financial crisis, the girls will have a tremendous disadvantage against the vast number of young ladies with dowries. Substantial dowries, I might add. I can tell you want the very best for your nieces, and that is admirable, but a dowry is essential in making an advantageous marriage. To secure their futures your nieces will need more than any well-meant advice your Cousin Felicity can give them.”

“Your suggestions are sensible, Madame; however, I’ve already made other plans to secure my nieces’ futures.”

While he sounded sure, Riley swore she detected a hint
of doubt to his conviction. “Overnight, my lord? I am intrigued,” she said, settling comfortably into her chair. “Do tell.”

He rose from his seat, his hands going behind his back. Pacing a couple of steps, he finally announced, “I plan to wed.”

It was Riley’s turn to raise her eyebrows in amazement. Part of her didn’t like the idea of Lord Ashlin married, especially not to some simpering miss, but then she realized this was nothing more than a bluff.

It had to be.

“So quickly?” she asked. “Who is the lucky lady?”

He frowned at her. “I’d prefer not to say until the banns are read.”

So, you don’t have anyone in mind
, she thought.

Lord Ashlin turned and paced a few more haphazard steps. “Once I am married, I believe we shall all retire to the Ashlin estates in the country.”

To escape the worst of your creditors
, Riley would have loved to add.

“And from there I will be able to find suitable husbands for my nieces. Men who can appreciate their gentle natures and quiet manners.”

At this, Riley bit her tongue to keep from asking if what he truly meant were old, doddering fools who hadn’t been to town in so long, their favorite hunting hounds were starting to look comely.

Listening to his own words, Mason wondered if anyone would have believed them. The bemused look flitting across Madame Fontaine’s features said quite plainly she’d found his future plans as amusing and likely as the latest
on-dit
.

Well, they had sounded perfectly rational not fifteen minutes earlier.

Oh, who was he kidding—he needed cash, not a wife.

And his nieces were…well, he didn’t want to consider how much money it would take to entice a man to marry even one of them, at least not until they received the polish Cousin Felicity was convinced this woman could offer.

Damnation, he needed her and her theatre. If what he’d heard last night at his club was true and her productions played to standing-room-only crowds, Frederick’s investment could return more than enough dividends to pay off the worst of his creditors.

Mason couldn’t help but feel the sting of irony in all of it. Freddie and the two earls before him had squandered the family fortunes on actresses and their ilk, and now it seemed the very path of the Ashlins’ self-destruction may also be their salvation—but it was akin to lying down with the enemy.

And the last thing he needed to be thinking about was lying down anywhere near Madame Fontaine—the images of a red plush apartment still murmuring in the back of his imagination.

“My lord, your plans sound so promising,” she began, rising from her seat, “that I hate even to make the new offer my partners asked me to extend on their behalf.”

Before he could stop himself, he repeated, “A new offer?”

“Why, yes,” she said, sounding as hopeful as he felt. “My partners authorized me to extend a new proposal in the unlikely event you’d made ‘other plans.’ But you sound like you’re well on your way to solving your difficulties, so I am loath to waste your time.” She sighed prettily and smiled at him.

The kind of smile that would make a man forget every vow he’d ever made. Forget his pride, forget his plans.

Forget he was a new kind of Ashlin.

But it didn’t let him forget he owed his soul to every debt collector in London.

Taking a deep breath, he nodded for her to continue.

“As you well know, you are entitled to a percentage of our receipts. My partners and I are willing to double that percentage to allow your debt to be repaid in half the time. And by the end of production you will have more than tripled your brother’s investment.”

Mason didn’t speak at first. As it turned out, his shock and inability to utter a response to her offer worked well to his advantage. She continued quickly, heaping additional enticements onto her already unbelievable proposition.