CHAPTER ONE
Forsyth House, London, February 1814
Stephen Douglas Forsyth, thirteenth Earl of Westleigh, knew damned well there were countless reasons to sign the betrothal contract immediately.
Increasing numbers of ton sticklers were giving him the ‘it’s high time you settled down and did your duty to the title’ lecture as they shoved and dangled their daughters, sisters and nieces in his path. At twenty-six, no one could claim him to be either foolishly wet behind the ears or embarrassingly long in the tooth. He was the very last in a long and previously distinguished line of Forsyths, (apart from a spotty and rather weedy third cousin named Clarence who lived in the wilds of Northumberland and ate nothing but greens.)
But most compelling of all: after he’d completed extensive research and analysis of London’s eligible women, his marriage compatibility chart results confirmed the Honorable Flora Hartley to be an eighty-six percent match. Admirably near-perfect wife material.
Flora had happily accepted his proposal, and negotiations with her father were nearly complete. So why did he hesitate?
“Just sign the damned papers and be done with it,” he growled, tapping his silver pen impatiently against the heavy oak desk that took pride of place in his large, delightfully tranquil library.
“No! Don’t do this, darling, I’m begging you.”
Startled, Stephen glanced up and grimaced at the elegantly dressed woman hovering in the doorway. Jane Forsyth, Countess of Westleigh. Otherwise known as his beloved mother and probably the sole reason he hadn’t yet signed on the dotted line. Her meddling tendencies might try the patience of a saint let alone a man more familiar with the fallen, but no one in the world had a kinder heart and the thought of causing her any further pain made him feel truly ill.
Yet he had to.
After the unending nightmare of Father and Gregory’s deaths, he’d not considered marriage. Caring for his broken-hearted mother took precedence over everything. Then he’d had to attend to tenants, staff and the multitude of other financial and legal obligations accompanying his inherited title and estates. There had been so much to learn, then improve and extend, and he’d fought more than a few battles along the way with those who resented change of any kind.
But he’d succeeded. The earldom was in excellent shape. Now was the time for marriage and the siring of an heir to ensure the line, so he’d approached the mission to find a wife the same way he did all his long-term investments: completed the research, worked out the percentages, analyzed the findings then settled on the best, most logical and least risky choice: Flora Hartley.
Sighing, Stephen sat back in his large, comfortably padded chair and reminded himself that despite his mother’s quirks, he did love her more than anyone, anywhere.
“Mama. We’ve had this conversation about my future bride, over and over. I’m surprised and not a little dismayed at your continued opposition, especially when you’ve known Flora and her family forever. When you’ve told me countless times what a charming, sensible girl she is. Why do you suddenly find her so shockingly unworthy to be my countess?”
“I don’t find her shockingly unworthy at all. I’m sure dear Flora will make some lucky young man a perfectly delightful wife. But you don’t love her,” Jane said bluntly as she marched into the formerly peaceful room and perched on an overstuffed chaise. “Actually, I’m not even sure you like her.”
“Of course I like her,” he replied, suppressing his irritation. “Flora is every inch a lady, beautiful, accomplished and an excellent hostess. I have no doubt she will be an admirable mother. Wouldn’t you like a grandchild to spoil?”
“Ha! If you think I’m so eager to be a grandmother that I would happily endorse an empty marriage, you have rocks in your head.”
“Mama—”
She held up a hand. “I want you to be happy with your wife, Stephen. To adore her and her adore you. Not a chilly acquaintance marriage, or worse, flaunting countless lovers in each other’s faces, but really, genuinely happy like your father and I were, God rest him. We were very different, yes, and some days I wanted to throw a full chamber pot at his head, but that is all part of love. You fight, you cry, you grow and the next day you laugh at it.”
Mentally recoiling, he let his gaze turn inward until the scent of leather-bound books and lemon polish, the crackling of the smoldering fire soothed his fractured senses. So-called love matches were unpredictable, irrational and messy. And if one lost the other, they shattered.
Such a risk was most certainly out of the question. “Flora and I will be perfectly content,” Stephen said calmly.
“Utterly unconvincing. You deserve so much more than bland contentment,” Jane replied, tucking a stray silver-touched blonde curl behind her ear.
“My thanks, but I really don’t have time for this right now.”
“Ha. A likely story.”
“A true story. I’m due in Kent to meet your favorite twins at Sir Albert and Lady Bruce’s house party.”
“Both of them?” She enquired, diverted. “Caroline will be there too?”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “Indeed. Mercilessly plaguing her brother and intimidating all the women unlucky enough to cross her path, no doubt.”
“Pfft. George Edwards gives twice as much as he gets. And if Caroline’s superior intelligence and glorious height are enough to cow the other ladies, well—”
“This contract,” he interrupted, absolutely unwilling to discuss the other blonde who riled his temper with gay abandon. “Won’t sign and send itself to Lord Hartley.”
“So don’t sign or send it then! There’s simply no need to rush into anything, darling. You’re young and perfectly healthy…”
Abruptly she stilled, terror widening the dark brown eyes identical to his. “You…you are quite well?”
“Fighting fit,” Stephen hastily reassured her. Health was no joking matter in this household.
“Then never say the angelic Miss Hartley’s halo is tarnished! For heaven’s sake, our family tree boasts far too many, ah, premature babies already.”
He snorted and ran an impatient hand through his closely cropped hair. “No. Unlike certain relatives I could mention, present company included, some of us can actually keep our heads until the wedding.”
“Oh, wonderful,” his mother shot back. “One of those marriages. I might have envisioned your brother, God rest him, or one of his ghastly friends embracing a dutiful rather than passionate match, but you? Not in a thousand years.”
As usual, the mention of Gregory sent a hot burst of gut-wrenching pain scorching through his body. She knew, damn it. She knew exactly how much he’d looked up to him, yet she kept pointing out flaws her eldest son hadn’t even had. Everyone knew Gregory had been the very best of men: staid, upright, respectable and respected.
Characteristics he wanted now to possess or he would die trying.
Slowly he unfolded his massive frame and got to his feet. As per usual, his petite mother didn’t so much as lean back. Merely squared her shoulders; lifted her chin and returned the glare in full measure.
Stephen’s scowl deepened. “The subject is forever closed, Mother. I’ll see you in three days’ time.”
“But, sweetheart—”
“Three days’ time.”
“Oh, very well. Do remember to smile, or you’ll frighten the other guests. And travel safely,” Jane replied airily as she stood and shook non-existent wrinkles from her pale blue skirts. Then with an impudent curtsy, she swept from the room.
Cursing in several languages, Stephen sank back into the chair and wished a pox on all females who laughed in the face of graceful retreats and virtues like silence or minding their own business. It was no bloody wonder his mother and Caroline Edwards got on so well, they were two peas from the same cursed pod.
Thank heavens for women like Flora Hartley. Not only was she stunningly beautiful with her ebony hair, sapphire-blue eyes and slender curves, she was sweet, demure and utterly biddable. The future Countess of Westleigh would do her duty and ensure—with a smile and without the battle—a peaceful, well-run household. No scandals, tears, or broken hearts in their future.
Taking a deep breath, he dipped his pen in the engraved silver inkpot and scrawled his signature on the crisp pieces of parchment in front of him. A few short weeks and life would be running exactly to plan.
Finally.
~ * ~
The Bruce Estate, Kent
In less than a minute, they would arrive at country house party hell.
Staring out the window of her stepfather’s worst carriage, Miss Caroline Edwards took in the surroundings and shuddered. Spindly, leafless trees crouched on either side of the unkempt gravel driveway like a witch over a cauldron. The large, cream stone manor buildings were in desperate need of several scrubbings. But most alarming, eight Bruce women were lined up by age outside their front door, all wearing shades of purple.
Discreetly flexing her aching backside currently being tortured by a too-thin leather squab, she sat back and pulled her thick blue woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. Sweet heavens, the house in question reminded her of…
“Something out of one of those novels Mama sneaks into the house under her sewing. You know the ones. Written by that frightfully interesting Radcliffe woman.”
Blinking, she glanced across the too-small length of the carriage to where her cretin of a twin brother had practically folded himself in half trying to find a comfortable spot. Trust George to verbalize the thought before it had even finished swirling in her head. He’d done it since they were small, saying it stemmed from being born an entire three minutes before her and receiving the lion’s share of wit, charm and looks.
Obviously said lion had bounded straight past modesty and humility in those three tiny minutes, but the bit about looks was accurate enough, damn his hide. Somehow the combination of golden hair and jade-green eyes they had inherited from their long-dead father looked infinitely better on him. As did their ridiculous height. Women swooned and sighed over George’s broad-shouldered, long-legged six and a half foot frame. Men stared at her, a mere five inches shorter, and squeaked ‘my dear, aren’t you…statuesque’ and ‘such a tall filly’ while she concentrated fiercely on not sneezing when heavily oiled or unwashed hair tickled her nose.
Peering out the window again, Caroline smiled grimly. “I’m not sure even Mrs. Radcliffe could envisage a horror such as this, especially with the berry display on the front steps. Remind me again why I’ve been dragged along to this…this debacle?”
George snorted. “Because our stepfather, in his delightfully avuncular manner, insisted you come along and shamelessly parade yourself in front of some more marriage prospects before the Season starts. Considering you are cemented to the shelf, Sir Malcolm’s plan seems rather futile, so I wish he’d take the hint and leave you alone—”
“Stop! Please don’t say something nice. That can only mean the end of the world is nigh, and I still have so much to see and do.”
“…and leave you alone because you’ve already turned down all the decent, half-decent and barely acceptable men in London. And all of England for that matter. It’s a definite scraping of the barrel now, unless you look to foreign shores.”
“Excuse me?” she spluttered, not for the first time wishing her reticule contained itching powder. Or a slingshot.
“You heard me. Sir Malcolm should just accept you’ll soon be a twenty-five year old spinster who wears blue feathered turbans, sleeps with seventeen cats and smells like an unaired cellar…Ouch. Damn it, Caro, we’ve talked about your wayward heels!”
“Wayward? Au contraire, mon frère. My heels have the instincts of a bloodhound and always know exactly where they are heading.”
“Indeed. And out in the open, I’d rate my chances at avoidance. But in such a confined space…” George broke off, casting a disgusted look around him. “Jesus, the pinchpenny bastard could have at least loaned us a decent carriage. Not our fault he is an angry dwarf.”
Caroline’s fingers twisted together. Angry didn’t begin to describe their stepfather’s temper most days, and it had been growing more and more volatile lately. She’d made the mistake once of asking what was wrong, and had now lost count how many times she’d been forced to wear gloves or high-necked gowns to hide the blue-black evidence of his unrelenting wrath.
But not even her twin knew about those particular humiliations.
“Ha,” she mocked. “You speak to me about scraping the barrel, why couldn’t you have had that discussion with Mama before she up and married the filthy weasel who must be obeyed?”
“It’s a hard conversation to facilitate when one is four.”
“Excuses, excuses.”
“Oh, shut up and put on your civilized, well-bred lady mask. I know it’s dusty from disuse, but if you can keep it on and control your sneezes, perhaps we’ll be welcome the entire three days of a house party for once.”
Rolling her eyes, Caroline braced herself for the head jolt as the carriage came to a shuddering halt in front of the wide steps. Ouch.
“That’s funny. I always thought we fled to avoid the wailing stampedes of devastated women you shamelessly bedded, then abandoned.”
George made a growling sound. “Easy to throw that around. Some would accuse a brick wall if they thought it would elevate their standing in the ton’s eyes.”
She shrugged and climbed out of the carriage. Her twin did have a point, there were ladies who would do or say anything for attention, but on the other hand if she had a guinea for every time some tearful wife or widow dragged her behind a potted plant to plead for assistance in regaining George’s fickle affection, she’d be richer than the king himself.
“Lady Bruce,” she said, inclining her head to their hostess.
“Ah, Miss Edwards,” said the woman with a rather terrifying smile. “Welcome. I’m sure you require a short rest and freshen-up after your journey; we’ve put you in the blue room on the second floor. Dinner will be at six o’clock sharp, followed by cards, poetry readings, and music in the salon, then dancing in the ballroom.”
“That sounds wonderful. We’re so pleased to be here,” Caroline said politely, trying not to laugh. It couldn’t be easy having seven aging girls to marry off.
Ignoring George’s wide-eyed pleading glance when their hostess began ruthlessly herding him toward her purple-shaded offspring, Caroline grinned and waggled her fingers in farewell. Some unhinged mama and darling daughter time was the least he deserved. Cemented to the shelf, indeed.
Several hours later, with a tough beef, undercooked vegetable and runny syllabub dinner sitting uncomfortably in her stomach, Caroline nursed a glass of surprisingly good wine on the edge of the Bruce’s large and colorfully decorated ballroom. Despite a roaring fire, the place was rather damp and draughty and it looked like the hosts had invited everyone they knew to try and fill it.
Yet her usual favorite activity of people watching, guessing the matches, friends, rivals, sinners and secret lovers, held little appeal tonight. Not when he was here, the man at the center of every daydream and night-time fantasy she’d ever had.
Stephen Forsyth.
It wasn’t just because she actually had to look up to speak to him. Or that his massive shoulders and powerfully muscled arms spun her around a ballroom, as though she were half her height and weight. Not even that he had possibly the most brilliant mind in England, one which allowed him to solve in seconds the kind of complex problems other people struggled with for days.
It was more…Stephen just radiated strength and stability, and possessed a pleasing earthiness with his thick brown hair and equally dark eyes. And no matter where he was or what he’d been doing, he smelled like fresh herbs and leather, a scent so damn heady she had to suppress a constant urge to swipe her tongue along his stubble-roughened, square jaw for a taste. He was the quintessential warrior of old with a total disdain of garish colors, frills and flounces, one could easily imagine him storming a castle and freeing its prisoners. Or picture him defending a village with nothing but a bloody sword in his hand. A man who would protect his home and family and be staunchly loyal to the woman lucky enough to win his heart…
Caroline sighed heavily. How cruel the fates had declared him the one man utterly and permanently beyond her reach.
“Pardon me, miss, but you look like an adventurous type. Care to run away with me?” drawled a wonderfully familiar voice, and with a muffled shriek she spun around and enveloped the perfectly petite Miss Louisa Donovan in a tight hug.
“Lulu! You never told me you were coming here!”
“I didn’t want to; you know how I feel about house parties. Mother insisted. But now I’ve found you, if you’ll stand just so you can hide me from my chaperone and all the starving hounds present.”
“An exercise in futility, darling. The hounds can scent England’s richest heiress from a hundred miles away, and as for your chaperone, I bet she could find you on a dark night with her eyes shut.”
“Bah,” grumbled Louisa, adjusting the sleeve of her elegant green-striped gown. “I envy you your freedom.”
“Tis true, twenty-four years old, built like a carriage, and penniless has its merits. But I’m hardly free. Chaperones are entirely superfluous, when my brother or one of his overbearing circle are continually hovering.”
“Indeed. Everyone knows you’re under the protection of the London Lords. The Duke of Southby, Marquess of Standish, Marquess of Ardmore, Colonel Lord Langley and…my goodness, I can never remember the last name. Remind me?”
Caroline scowled down into her friend’s innocently-widened silver eyes, unbearably tempted to strangle the insolent minx with her own fiery red hair.
“Westleigh.”
“Pardon me? It is a complete crush in here.”
“Westleigh.”
“Sorry, still didn’t quite hear you.”
“The Earl of Westleigh,” she barked.
“Hmmm. Still in love with him then. You are nothing if not dogged, dearest.”
“Excuse me? I most certainly am not in love with him.”
Louisa tilted her head, her expression far too sympathetic.
“Oh please. You’ve been mad about Stephen Forsyth for as long as I’ve known you. And don’t insult me by remembering exactly how long that is; in my mind I am still as fresh as a summer rosebud.”
“Forget your fading petals, Lulu, far more worrying is the severe mental imbalance. I mean really, stating I have feelings for England’s worst cretin? I’ll admit his lordship doesn’t hurt the eyes to look at, but he is my brother’s best friend and comrade in crime, nothing more.”
“Right,” said Louisa with a disdainful sniff. “And I’m the future Queen of Spain.”
“I do declare. How low should I curtsy, your highness?”
“Low enough so I can dump this wine on your head.”
“Criminal wastage,” Caroline said, grinning. “Tonight’s vintage is actually quite excellent—”
“Don’t you dare change the subject. Westleigh cannot be England’s worst cretin; we’ve already agreed George permanently holds the title. And as for fiddle faddling around and calling your desperate pining for the Earl ‘feelings’, I’m appalled. You’re just plain in love. The forever kind, that makes your stomach ache, head spin and toes curl.”
Her heart clenched at the sting of undeniable facts. Thankfully her ungovernable tongue yet again came to the rescue. “That description sounds more like the pressing need for a good purge.”
“Ha. You’ve never thought it might be more productive to tell him the truth and see what happened, rather than supposedly protecting yourself through constant baiting, sniping and generally pushing him away?”
Caroline gave her friend a disgusted look. “You cannot be serious. He would die laughing, and then that weedy cousin with the bad breath would inherit everything. I simply couldn’t do that to the divine Lady W.”
“Hmmm. Well I hate to break it to you, but unless you rescue him, your sweetheart might perish shortly anyway. Look.”
Following Louisa’s gaze to the other side of the room, Caroline’s eyes widened.
Oh Lord.
Obviously emboldened by the staggering quantities of wine they’d consumed with their dinner, the seven Bruce sisters had formed a pack and were advancing toward her brother and Lord Westleigh like a troupe of Bow Street Runners on a cornered criminal. Neither male would make it out alive.
Cursing under her breath, Caroline smoothed the front of her ruby-red gown and quickly patted her chignon to ensure it was still relatively secure. “They should give out sainthoods for this sort of thing. By the way, you’re coming with me.”
“To help George? You’ll owe me a dozen favors.”
“I know. When’s your next batch of duty visits? I’ll go with you.”
“All of them?” Louisa inquired, her smile turning distinctly cunning. “Aunt Edith too?”
“That old bat can’t be still alive. She must be a hundred and twenty at least.”
“Alive and kicking. Literally.”
Caroline shuddered. “I suppose, yes, Aunt Edith too.”
“Then Miss Edwards, we have ourselves a deal. Let the cretin-saving mission commence!”
Sighing, knowing this would probably be one of the most foolish things she would ever do, she squared her shoulders, linked arms with Louisa and marched onto the battlefield.
~ * ~
He’d only been on Bruce land a few hours, but already Stephen regretted his decision to attend the house party. To some extent because most of the men were positively obsessed with hunting, something he’d never enjoyed but had avoided completely since Gregory’s death. But mainly because he’d never before experienced the sheer intensity of seven unmarried sisters who were set on pursuing him.
As a mere mister, the looks from behind fluttering fans and over creamy shoulders had been playful. Lustful. A constant stream of unspoken invitations to bed, with no greater expectation than hours of wicked pleasure. But the minute he inherited, gazes became narrowed and purposeful, previously robust constitutions were overwhelmed by mild heat, horses pulled up lame in remarkably secluded spots, and eagle-eyed chaperones mysteriously vanished. Yet all that nonsense paled in comparison to the relentless attention of the Bruce family. Since arriving, there had been one permanently attached to each arm for introductions. Three kept his glass filled; two fought over which pianoforte piece to play, and all loudly applauded his skill at the borrowed billiards table while seeking his opinion on every topic imaginable between shots.
The last part was the worst. Not the conversation, but the way they all hushed each other, and pinned him with their unblinking gazes and wide smiles while waiting for a reply. Not even at Almack’s had he ever felt quite so stalked, so hastily excusing himself after dinner to mingle with other guests had been a relief. The sooner he could return to London, see the countersigned marriage contract and formally announce his and Flora’s engagement, the better.
A discreet cough startled him from his musings.
“If the brandy is not up to your exacting requirements, my lord, I will happily take it off your hands,” George Edwards drawled, his green eyes mocking.
Stephen stopped scanning the overcrowded yet still rather chilly ballroom and shook his head. “Drink is fine; it’s the hosts I’m worried about. Think the strain of finding seven prospective husbands is taking its toll on the girls, and Sir Albert and Lady B, they really are peculiar.”
“Have a heart. They live in the middle of nowhere with only each other for company, and suddenly Lord Eligible is detained in their lair. But I’m sure you’ll be just fine. Right until the moment you wake up oil-basted and shackled to a dungeon wall at least.”
Stephen shuddered. “One day I’ll learn to say nothing to you.”
“Unlikely. Habit’s too ingrained now. Besides, if it’s all that unbearable at least you have the option of leaving. Caro and I didn’t want to come here, she isn’t friends with any of the Bruce girls and that many unmarried women in one family gives me heartburn. But Sir Malcolm insisted. As he does.”
“You shouldn’t let your stepfather dictate.”
“Obeying orders is an unfortunate reality when someone else holds the purse strings,” George replied easily, but his averted gaze and rigid shoulders indicated a far different emotion. “Anyway, enough of that. London is so dull before the Season starts, I thought why the hell not. Could be amusing for two dedicated bachelors about town like us.”
“About that, there is something I have to t—”
George let out a low whistle. “Good God. The Bruce sisters are upping the ante. I’ve seen starving rats move with less unsavory intent.”
Stephen grimaced at the fast approaching pack; the neat way they formed a v shape to conveniently block any available exits. “The rats will have to wait their turn,” he muttered. “I’m going to break both your legs. Then your arms. Or maybe I’ll simply rearrange your face so completely that no scandal sheet will ever crown you England’s most handsome man again.”
“Steady on,” George hissed, running a wavering hand through his deliberately rumpled hair. “It’s all I’ve got to sell. Now cease wasting time and focus that so-called genius brain on a plan. In the next half minute we need something to turn terrible odds into a stunning victory. Proceed.”
“I’ve got it. Using your cooling body as a shield—”
“Actually, I like that. Death would be infinitely preferable to concurrently receiving the amorous attentions of seven Bruces. Who knows, perhaps their mother likes to join in as well. They seem a close-knit family.”
Stomach roiling at the thought, Stephen tried to hunch himself into a less appetizing package. Feral grins and soft growls told him he’d failed. God, he could smell them again now, a choking cloud of poorly aired clothing, perspiration, and strong perfume, and it made him want to gag.
“No. No quick death. It’s your bloody fault we’re here so you can be dipped in the sweet of their choice and thrown into the sex dungeon.”
“All the desserts in the world won’t change the fact that you’re the one with the mountains of money, ancient title and extensive estates. My lord.”
“Much obliged at the reminder,” Stephen snapped. “You are hereby cut from my acquaintance.”
“Come on. Imagine how dull your life would be.”
“I have and it appears just fine. God, to think when you said house party, I thought a bit of light hearted drinking and card playing before the Season started. Obviously my idea of relaxation is vastly different from yours, you unspeakable bastard.”
“Not my fault the invitation failed to specify us as the main stags for the stalk,” George replied, his eyes darting left, right and back again.
But there was no salvation. The Bruce sisters had them well and truly surrounded.