The Bachelor List (29 page)

“It
is
part of our business,” she said with a tiny shrug. “I explained that we need to support ourselves.”

“Yes,” he said faintly. “Yes, so you did.” He turned back to Amelia. “Pray accept my congratulations, Mrs. Franklin.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ensor.” Amelia hesitated, then said, “I hope this won't jeopardize my husband's—”

Max interrupted swiftly. “Hardly, ma'am. Your husband and I deal very well together. I wish you all the best in your future life. If I can do anything to ease matters between you and my sister over your resignation, then please don't hesitate to tell me.”

“Well, actually you could,” Chastity said before Amelia could refuse an offer that from experience she accepted as merely form kindness. “Letitia is refusing to allow Amelia to fetch her clothes or any of her belongings.”

“I'll take care of that,” Max responded. “Give me the address, Mrs. Franklin, and I will see that your possessions are delivered there in the morning.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Ensor.”

He bowed. “It's the least I can do, ma'am. My sister is frequently overhasty when matters don't go her way, but she is quickly brought to reason again.”

The Duncan sisters exchanged glances at this nice brotherly apology. Amelia took her farewell and Chastity went to Max and kissed him soundly on both cheeks. “So, have you set the date?”

Max didn't trouble to question how or why Constance's sisters had come to that conclusion. He said merely, “I'm assuming your sister will do that.”

“But we have to put you in the picture first,” Prudence said. “It's not quite as simple as you might think around here, Max.”

He raised his hands again in disclaimer. “Oh, no, Prudence, make no mistake. I am under no illusions. If you think it will do me good, then by all means put me in the picture. But if you think it wouldn't hurt to spare me the details, then I don't insist on full disclosure.”

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” Constance said, taking his hand once more and leading him to the stairs, following her sisters.

“Love one, love all,” he murmured.

“Only up to a point,” Constance whispered. She raised her voice. “Prue, we'll talk about this later.”

Prudence glanced back. “Of course.” She winked and followed Chastity into the parlor.

“We go this way.” Constance turned down a side corridor and opened the door to her bedroom. “I think you need to get out of those wet clothes.” Her fingers moved over the buttons on his shirt. “Shall I draw you a bath?” She touched her tongue to his nipples, smiling as they hardened beneath the caress. Her hand slid into the waistband of his trousers, slithering flat-palmed over his belly. Her fingers reached down. “A bath now or after?”

For answer he pulled the pins from her hair, untangling the russet cascade with his fingers. He unbuttoned her blouse, his fingers deft despite his haste. He pushed the thin white lawn from her shoulders and unbuttoned her chemise. He took her breasts in his hands and kissed the nipples, as she had done for him. His hands spanned her rib cage, then lifted her bodily and tumbled her onto the bed at her back.

“I—” she began.

“No words.” He kissed her into silence. “Words only get us into trouble.”

Constance smiled, a lazy languid smile of agreement, as she helped him push aside her skirt and petticoat and drawers. With fingers as deft and as urgent as his she unbuttoned his trousers, helping him to push them down his ankles. She took his penis between her hands, held it between her breasts, took it in her mouth. She inhaled the essence of this man who was to be her husband. She tasted his sea-salt taste. She gloried in her possession of him. Her fingernails raked his buttocks as she drew him deep into her mouth, watched with open eyes his face as he reared above her, his eyes glowing with passion, his wonderful mouth parted on an ecstatic breath.

Then slowly, infinitesimally, he withdrew from her mouth. He moved down her body, laid his head on her belly, and smiled up at her. “Even stevens, sweetheart. Between the sheets or on the dueling field.”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed, as his mouth found her core. “Oh, yes.”

Chapter 19

M
ore wedding presents, Con.” Chastity staggered into the parlor under a pile of packages, kicking the door shut with her foot. “And Aunt Edith is arriving this evening.” She set her burdens down on the floor.

“Dear Aunt Edith,” Prudence said with a note of resignation. “Why does she think we need a mother figure for this wedding? She's a sweetheart but she'll only interfere with all the arrangements and then we'll have to rearrange them again.”

“You know how she's always tried to take Mother's place,” Constance said somewhat absently without raising her head from her writing. “She thinks it's the thing to do. We can live with it.”

Prudence laughed. “You're becoming so mellow these days. Has Max told you yet where you're going to honeymoon?”

Constance set down her pen and turned to face the room. “No,” she said, not sounding in the least mellow. “I can't get anything out of him. He says it's traditional for the groom to keep the bride in the dark about the honeymoon. I mean, really! Who gives a damn about tradition?”

“Max, clearly,” Chastity said, sitting on the floor beside the newly arrived packages and attacking the bindings with a small knife. “But he's only teasing you.”

“I am aware of that,” Constance said. “And it doesn't make it any easier. How do I know what to pack in my so-called trousseau if I don't know what we're going to be doing? For all I know we could be climbing the Pyramids or rowing a boat down the Amazon.”

“That doesn't sound like Max's kind of thing at all,” Prudence observed, kneeling beside Chastity to help with the unpacking.

“I'm not sure
what
his kind of thing is,” Constance said in some disgust.

“Well, come and help us unpack this stuff. Maybe it's a second set of cutlery.”

“I just want to finish this.” Constance turned back to the secretaire. “I want it ready for the next edition.”

“That'll come out when you're on honeymoon,” Chastity said. “You'll miss the fireworks . . . Oh, no it's not cutlery, it's silver candlesticks.” She held them up. “They're lovely. From the Armitages. You can say what you like about Elizabeth, but she has impeccable taste.”

Constance set down her pen again. “Let me see. Oh, yes, they are gorgeous.” She shook her head slightly. “People are so amazingly generous. I can't help feeling rather guilty. I'm sure I don't deserve any of it.”

“It's a wedding, Con. Everyone loves a wedding, particularly this one. Your maiden speech for the WSPU is splashed all over the newspapers, and then in the same breath in the same papers your engagement is announced to a politician who's been excoriated in that dreadful rag
The Mayfair Lady
for spying on the Union. It's the most delicious topic of gossip the town has had in many months.”

Constance couldn't help a rueful laugh. “At least the engagement mollified Father. I really thought he was going to have an apoplexy when he discovered about me and the Union.”

“Well, since Max can do no wrong in his eyes you're basking in vicarious approval now,” Prudence commented.

“Long may it last.” Constance took up her pen again. “He's not going to like this, though. I'm actually quite glad I won't be here when it comes out. I know it's cowardly of me, and he won't know I wrote it, but I'm still glad I'll be well away.”

“You're really laying into Barclay?” Chastity stood up and came to read over her sister's shoulder. Her eyes widened. “I'm not sure I want to be around either.”

“I have no choice,” Constance said. “The deeper I dug the more dirt I came up with. The man's in league with the devil. Once this hits the streets, all the national press are going to take it up. I've identified three women he's basically raped, made pregnant, and then abandoned. They'll all get paid to give their stories, which is some consolation for them, and then I've—”

A brisk knock at the door gave her pause. Max entered on the knock. “Good afternoon,” he said cheerfully. “Oh, those are lovely.” He picked up one of the candlesticks. “Don't we have half a dozen of these already?”

“No,” Constance said. “That's cake forks.”

“Oh.” He came over and kissed the back of her neck. “So diligent . . . what are you doing, writing thank you letters?”

Constance hesitated. “Uh . . . yes,” she said.

“
What
are you doing?” he demanded, not fooled for a moment.

“Oh, just something for the next edition of
The Mayfair Lady,
” she said vaguely, blotting the paper and managing to leave the blotting paper covering the sheet. “Tell me where we're going, Max.”

It was a safe distraction. He shook his head, laughing at her. “Wait and see. This time tomorrow you will know.”

“Well, will it involve a boat journey?”

He laughed again.

“A train? . . . Your motor car?”

“I told you, wait and see. I am really relishing imposing good old-fashioned tradition on you for once, my dear, and I'm not about to give up the pleasure too soon.”

“There are times,” Constance declared, “when I can't imagine why I'm marrying you.”

“Would you like a reminder?” His eyes narrowed.

“I think this is our cue to find something else to do,” Chastity said, heading for the door. “When you're finished reminding and remembering we'll be in the drawing room waiting for Aunt Edith.”

“Perhaps we should take these with us,” Prudence said, swiftly removing the papers from the secretaire. “Wouldn't like the wind to blow them away.” She whisked out of the parlor with the incriminating sheets. Max was still something of a tender flower growing in the soil of the Duncan sisters' activities and mustn't be given too many shocks at once.

“So?” Max said thoughtfully. “What should I remind you of first?”

“Better start at the beginning,” Constance said, slowly rising to her feet. “I seem to be suffering from total amnesia.”

About the Author

Jane Feather
is the
New York Times
bestselling, award-winning author of
Kissed by Shadows, To Kiss a Spy, The Widow's Kiss, The Least Likely Bride, The Accidental Bride, The Hostage Bride, A Valentine Wedding, The Emerald Swan
, and many other historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has over ten million copies of her books in print.

Also by Jane Feather

V
ICE

V
ANITY

V
IOLET

V
ALENTINE

V
ELVET

V
IXEN

V
IRTUE

T
HE
D
IAMOND
S
LIPPER

T
HE
S
ILVER
R
OSE

T
HE
E
MERALD
S
WAN

T
HE
H
OSTAGE
B
RIDE

A V
ALENTINE
W
EDDING

T
HE
A
CCIDENTAL
B
RIDE

T
HE
L
EAST
L
IKELY
B
RIDE

T
HE
W
IDOW
'
S
K
ISS

A
LMOST
I
NNOCENT

T
O
K
ISS A
S
PY

K
ISSED BY
S
HADOWS

V
ENUS

And look for the next two tales of the
delightful and vivacious Duncan sisters . . .

Jane Feather's

The Bride Hunt

Prue's story

March 2004

and

The Wedding Game

Chastity's story

April 2004

Read on for a preview . . .

The Bride Hunt

On sale March 2004

P
rudence sat back. Covent Garden was a strange choice of venue under the circumstances, she thought a little uneasily. The restaurants around the Opera House and the theaters of Drury Lane would be very public, and there were bound to be people she knew. If she was seen with Sir Gideon, there would inevitably be talk, and maybe later, when the trial started, someone would remember seeing them together and start to wonder. It was a little too risky for comfort. It seemed stupid now that she hadn't asked where he was taking her, but at the time the question hadn't occurred to her. When a man asked you for dinner you either accepted or you didn't. You didn't base your response on the kind of entertainment he was offering.

The chauffeur drove slowly and considerately through the puddle-strewn streets. When they turned into the thronged narrow streets around Covent Garden, Prudence drew farther back into the vehicle's interior and wished she'd thought to bring a veil.

The car drew up outside a discreet-looking house with shuttered windows and a door that opened directly onto the street. The chauffeur helped Prudence out of the car and escorted her to the door. She glanced up at the house. It bore none of the telltale signs of a restaurant. In fact, she thought, it had the air of a private home.

The door opened a minute after the chauffeur had rung the bell. A gentleman in austere evening dress bowed a greeting. “Madam, Sir Gideon is awaiting you in the red room.”

Red room?
Prudence glanced at the chauffeur as if for enlightenment, but he had already stepped back to the street. She found herself in an elegant hall with a black and white marble floor and elaborately molded ceilings. A flight of stairs with gilded banisters rose from the rear.

“This way, madam.” The man preceded her up the stairs and along a wide corridor. Voices, both male and female, came from behind closed doors, together with the chink of china and glass. Prudence was as intrigued as she was puzzled.

Her escort stopped outside a pair of double doors in the middle of the corridor, knocked once, then with an almost theatrical flourish opened both doors wide. “Your guest, Sir Gideon.”

Prudence stepped into a large, square room, furnished as a drawing room except for a candlelit dining table set for two in a deep bow window overlooking a garden. It was immediately obvious why it was known as the red room. The curtains were red velvet, the furniture upholstered in red damask.

Gideon Malvern was standing beside the fireplace, where a small fire burned. He set down the whisky glass he held and came across the room. “Good evening, Miss Duncan. Let me take your coat.”

His evening dress was impeccable, tiny diamond studs in his white waistcoat. As she removed her head scarf, Prudence had a flash of regret at her own carefully chosen costume. In the interests of making absolutely certain the barrister understood that this meeting was not a social occasion, she had decided to preserve the image of the dowdy spinster she'd created in his chambers that afternoon. In fact, without exaggeration, she looked a fright in a hideous brown dress she'd unearthed from a cedar closet that hadn't been opened in ten years. She had no idea where the dress came from. It certainly wasn't something her mother would ever have worn. She unbuttoned her coat with some reluctance and allowed him to take it from her. He handed it to the man who had ushered her upstairs. The man bowed and withdrew, closing the doors gently behind him.

Gideon surveyed his guest, one eyebrow lifting a fraction. He was trying to imagine how any woman, let alone one as relatively young as this one, could deliberately choose to dress with such abominable lack of taste. One had to assume she had
chosen
the gown she was wearing, just as she had chosen her costume that afternoon. Perhaps, he thought, she was color-blind as well as shortsighted, or whatever problem she had with her eyesight that obliged her to wear those thick horn-rimmed spectacles. She was certainly fashion-blind. His nose twitched. Could that possibly be a whiff of mothballs emanating from the folds of her dreadful evening dress?

“Sherry,” he said. “May I offer you a glass before dinner?”

“Thank you,” Prudence responded, well aware of his reaction to her appearance. It was exactly what she had intended, but it still left her chagrined. She was far more used to admiring glances than the barrister's look of mingled pity and disdain.

“Please sit down.” He gestured to one of the sofas and went to the sideboard, where decanters of sherry and whisky stood. He poured sherry and brought the glass over to her.

“Thank you,” she said again, with a prim little smile that she thought would be appropriate to her appearance. “What is this house?”

“A private supper club,” he said, taking a seat on the sofa opposite her. “I thought a restaurant might be a little too public.” He sipped his whisky.

“It wouldn't do for us to be seen together,” she agreed, smoothing down her skirts with a fussy little pat of her hand.

Gideon could only agree wholeheartedly. He wasn't sure his social reputation would survive being seen in public with such a wretchedly drab companion. He watched her covertly for a moment. She wore her hair twisted tightly onto her nape in an old-fashioned bun stuck with wooden pins. But the stuffy style couldn't do much to disguise the lustrous richness of the color. Somewhere between cinnamon and russet, he thought. No, something wasn't quite right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something out of kilter about the Honorable Miss Prudence Duncan. He remembered that moment in his chambers when she'd taken off her glasses as she launched her attack. The image of that woman and the one in front of him somehow didn't gel. And after his late-afternoon's reading he was not about to jump to conclusions about any of the Duncan sisters.

“As I recall, Miss Duncan, you said you took care of the business side of the publication. I assume you're something of a mathematician.”

“I wouldn't say that precisely,” Prudence stated. “I would describe myself as a bookkeeper.”

At that he laughed. “Oh, no, Miss Duncan, I am convinced that you are no more a bookkeeper than your sister is the writer of penny dreadfuls.”

Prudence looked startled. “Have you been reading copies of
The Mayfair Lady
since this afternoon?”

“I discovered an unexpected source of back issues,” he said dryly. “Curiously enough, under my own roof. My daughter and her governess appear to be avid readers.”

“Ah,” she said. “Your daughter. Yes.”

“That appears to come as no particular surprise to you,” he observed.

“
Who's Who,
” she said. “We looked you up.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So you know more about me than I do about you, Miss Duncan.”

Prudence felt herself flush as if he was accusing her of prying. “
Who's Who
is a matter of public record,” she stated. “Besides, if we hadn't looked you up we wouldn't have been able to find you.”

“Ah,” he said. “Sensible research, of course.”

“Does your daughter live with you?” She couldn't hide her surprise.

“As it happens,” he responded shortly. “She attends North London Collegiate for her formal schooling. Her governess takes care of the wider aspects of her education. It seems that women's suffrage is of particular interest to Miss Winston, hence her familiarity with your publication.” He rose to take his glass to the sideboard to refill it after casting a glance towards Prudence's barely touched sherry glass.

This was a man of surprises, Prudence reflected, unable to deny that her interest was piqued. North London Collegiate School for Ladies, founded in 1850 by the redoubtable Frances Buss, one of Prudence's mother's female icons, was the first day school to offer a rigorous education to young women. Miss Buss, like the late Lady Duncan, had been a fervent supporter of women's rights as well as education.

Prudence took a healthy sip of her sherry. “You believe in women's education, then?”

“Of course.” He sat down again, regarding her a little quizzically. “I imagine that surprises you.”

“After your diatribe this afternoon about how women are not equipped—I believe I have that right—not
equipped
to enter the battleground of lawsuits and suchlike, I find it incredible. I think you advised me and my sisters to confine ourselves to the gossip of our own social circles and keep away from pen and ink.” She smiled. “Do I have
that
right, Sir Gideon?” She leaned over to put her now empty glass on the sofa table.

“Yes, you do.” He seemed completely untroubled by the apparent contradiction. “The fact that I support the education of women does not deny my assertion that the majority of women are uneducated and ill equipped to deal in my world. More sherry?”

He reached for her glass when she nodded, and went back to the sideboard. “Were that not the case, there would be little need of my support for the cause.” He refilled her glass from the decanter and brought it back to her. He stood looking down at her with that same quizzical, appraising air. Prudence was distinctly uneasy. It felt as if he were looking right through her, through the façade she was presenting, to the real Prudence underneath.

“Your daughter . . .” she began, trying to divert his attention.

“My daughter is hardly relevant here,” he responded. “Suffice it to say that under the guidance of Miss Winston she's a passionate supporter of women's suffrage.”

“And are you?” The question was quick and sharp. Without thinking, she took off her glasses, as she often did in moments of intensity, rubbing them on her sleeve as she looked up at him.