“Of course, my lady. Papa should be returning from London late tonight, but upon my arrival home, I shall inform Mama straightaway. We shall send a missive over with dates and times. If none is convenient, select one that will be. I’m sure we’ll be able to accommodate you and Lord Colton.”
“Thank you, child.”
Philana stood back, allowing her son to escort Adriana through the front door and beyond the portico where her family’s landau awaited her. Philana couldn’t believe how well the evening had gone, for her son had actually seemed quite taken with the girl. The two certainly made a handsome couple, and she was especially pleased that Adriana was tall enough to complement rather than detract from Colton’s height. Most women, including Melora and Jaclyn, would’ve been dwarfed by him, yet she could imagine that when her son entered a room, everyone turned to watch him, much as they had done when his father had made an appearance, not only because of his extraordinary good looks, but also for his lofty presence. Perhaps, after all this time, there was still strong evidence of that Viking lord from ages ago running in the Wyndhams’ blood.
Five
* * *
Edmund Elston sat back in his chair as he stared agog at his rumple-haired son who shuffled like an ancient dotard into the dining room. His shoulders were sharply hunched, and he held an arm clasped across his middle as if desperately trying to hold in his entrails. He made his way to the food-laden sideboard, poured himself a cup of tea, and gingerly took a sip. Immediately he winced, lowered the receptacle, and carefully touched the lopsided protrusion jutting from his swollen mouth, drawing Edmund’s notice to the left side of his son’s face. It was puffed well past his bruised jaw.
Cocking a curious brow at his offspring, Edmund dared to offer a conjecture. “From what I’m seein’, boy, I’d say the cove wha’ did ‘at ta yu sent yu flyin’ ‘pon yur arse right quick-like. Oo’d yu get inta a row wit’, anyway?”
“No one you’d know,” Roger mumbled darkly, glowering at his parent from heavily hooded eyes. “ ‘Twas merely a dispute over a bit of rare property. As for the victor, no one has been able to claim the piece as yet, so its ownership remains in question.”
It certainly didn’t help Roger’s mood to see a contemptuous smirk turning his father’s lips. He didn’t need to ask why. His untutored sire had come to believe only a bloke who could swig down several tankards of ale or glasses of gin without losing his ability to throw a dozen or so good punches at some ornery cuss was really worth his weight. As for his solitary offspring, Edmund Elston had always considered him less than competent in manly vices.
“Yu’ll have ta let ‘at there eye heal afores yu go visitin’ ’er liedyship ‘gain, or she’ll be wonderin’ if’n yu’re man enuff ta do what needs ta be done ta ’er.”
“You needn’t worry about that,” Roger jeered caustically. “The question that should be asked is whether the lady will be able to keep me content. I’m not nearly as naive or inexperienced as you seem to imagine, Father. In fact, the truth would probably surprise you more than you can even imagine.”
“Maybe, but the proof o’ the puddin’ is in the eatin’, boy, an’ ‘ard as I been lookin’, I ain’t seen ’Er ‘Ighness followin’ yu ‘ome ta ‘ave dessert.”
“ ‘Tis doubtful a wellborn lady ever would, either—certainly not when her parents might consider her a means to greater wealth and power.”
“So’s, when yu gonna be seein’ ’er ‘gain?” Edmund pressed impatiently. “If yu wants me advice, I’d say yu needs ta stop yur shilly-shallying an’ gets yurself ‘itched ta ’er afore she gets an itch in her pantaloons ta ‘ave some other bloke pleasurin’ ’er.”
By dint of will, Roger refrained from glowering at his sire. “It isn’t as easy as you make it out to be, Father.”
A loud snort erupted from the elder. “ ’Ere’s ways ta brings ’ese matters ta a ’ead, lad. If’n yu can’ts get coupled ta ’er no other way, then, be damned, force yurself ‘pon the bitch. She’ll be enjoyin’ it soon enuff wit’out yu worryin’ ’bout how yu done it ta ’er the first time. Time’s awasting, boy, an’ if’n yu don’t do somethin’ ta make the bitch yur own fairly soon, some other gent’ll be settin’ her back upon her arse an’ climbin’ on top.”
Rage nettled Roger’s temper. “Should ever a suitor be so foolish, Father, I have no doubt that Lord Sutton would take him out and, at the very least, castrate him for raping his daughter.”
“ ‘Tain’t like she’s ‘is only chick,” Edmund observed as he stuffed a scone into his mouth. Throwing up a hand in derision, he talked through his food, spitting out generous particles as he did so. “Why, the bloke’s got ‘isself two other chits, more’n any man would e’er need ta baits ‘isself a fine one. Betcha ’e wouldn’t mind yu makin’ ‘im a wee li’l babe in ’er belly.”
An abortive laugh escaped Roger as he settled into a chair at the far end of the table. At times, he wondered if he wouldn’t have been better off keeping his position at the orphanage rather than becoming a simple lackey to someone as demanding and uncouth as his sire. The man cared only for himself and seemed especially bent upon wheedling riches and opportunities from unsuspecting dupes. Yet when he had needed someone far more astute than himself to run his mill, he had appealed to his only evidence of progeny and had expected Roger to make haste in leaving everything he had ever known. That was probably the only way the mill could have survived. Although merely an apprentice, Roger was already seeing evidence that the workers, when crucial decisions had to be made, came to him for instructions rather than seeking out his sire. “You don’t understand how Lord Standish dotes upon his youngest daughter. I’ll warrant she’s the light of his life.”
“Well, yu ‘as ta do somethin’!” Edmund insisted, becoming irate. Fixing a narrowed squint upon his son, the elder shook a stubby finger at him threateningly. “If’n yu don’t hurries yurself ‘long, yu’ll be courtin’ Martha Grimbald ere long, ‘at much I promise ye, boy. I wants some returns on me investments o’ the clothes I bought for ye, an’ from what I beens seein’ ’ese past months, yu ain’t movin’ fast enuff ta suit me.”
A heavy sigh escaped Roger’s lips. Being constantly threatened into a forced marriage with the very rich miller’s unappetizing daughter had made him far bolder in his pursuit of Adriana than he would’ve ever been otherwise. While in the orphanage, aristocrats had seemed as inaccessible as the clouds in the sky, but his father had definitely motivated him in that area by taking him to dinner at the Grimbalds’ soon after his move to Bradford on Avon. “I pressed the Lady Adriana for an invitation to the Suttons’ Autumn Ball in October. If I haven’t obtained a favorable response to my proposal of marriage from the girl by then, I shall take matters into my own hands.” He dared not look at his father as he added, “If need be, I’ll find her alone . . . and force myself upon her.”
“Now ‘at’s what I’ve been waitin’ ta ’ear. Yu’re a lad aftah me own ’eart.”
Roger’s hackles rose on end. “May I remind you, sir, that I’m twenty and seven now, no longer a lad.”
Edmund blandly dismissed that fact with a wave of his hand. “Yu’re still untried, I’ll warrant, else yu’da’ve done it ta ’er afore now.”
“Although I’ll warrant you haven’t known many, Father, Lady Adriana happens to be just that, a lady, not some filthy slut to be taken whenever a man is in a mood, which you seem enormously fond of doing. Frankly, it’s rather disgusting to come home and find you laid out stark naked in the parlor with some prurient doxy you’ve found in an alehouse. You could at least find one who isn’t so revolting to look upon to service your needs. That last one nigh turned my stomach.”
Edmund snickered as if enjoying some private joke. “Well, she ‘ad ’er ’eart in the right place. She pounded me real good, she did.”
Roger’s lips twisted with rampant revulsion. “If you ask me, the two of you looked like swine wallowing in a pigsty.”
“Yu ‘ush ‘at kind
o’ talk, yu ’ear! What I do wit’ me friends ‘as nothin’ ta do wit’ what yu’re supposed ta be doin’ wit’ M’liedy High and Haughty, an’, right now, ‘at don’t seem too much! Wouldn’t ‘urt yu none ta wallow a bit wit’ ’er.”
Roger lifted his shoulders, and then instantly regretted his actions as he was rudely reminded of the place where he had collided rather abruptly with the floor. “You seem to think I can take her ladyship willy-nilly, yet we’ve never been alone. We’re always in the company of others. Never once has she allowed me to draw her away to a private area.”
“Then yu’d best find some way ta get the bitch ta yurself, lad, or yu’ll be facin’ Martha Grimbald, eyeball ta eyeball, in a marriage bed.”
Sometime after Edmund had made his departure, Roger still sat in his chair, staring at nothing in particular. In his mind’s eye, all he could envision were darkly translucent gray eyes consuming the young woman he had come to admire. Barely had he managed to subdue his aversion to the marquess, then all too quickly he had felt his vitals churning anew. Even now, he struggled against a fermenting vexation as he recalled the way the colonel had carefully scrutinized the raven-haired beauty. Indeed, the man had made no pretense about doing so, as if he had had some special right.
Roger’s shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his overwhelming defeat. He probably knew better than anyone that Lord Colton was the only one with that distinct honor. Yet it had taken every degree of restraint he had been capable of putting into play to stand quietly by and watch the man’s smoldering gaze glide over the beauty. His own eyes had feasted so often on the perfection of the young woman that he was sure the lady’s face had been forever forged upon his memory: the lovely winged brows; the shining ebon eyes fringed with long, silken lashes; the slender, ever-so-winsome nose; and the soft, gently curving mouth. How many times had he yearned to press his own upon those enticing lips? And yet, he had been forbidden to do so, not only by the girl, but by the dictates of her lofty peerage. Gnawing at his very being even now was the vexing reality that she was intended for the likes of a marquess, not a penniless commoner. How could one of his low estate hope to win the esteem of the aristocrats living in the area? They had formed a close-knit circle that not only encompassed the Suttons and Wyndhams, their intimate friends and relatives, but many other nobles affluent enough to own vast country estates to which, upon the adjournment of Parliament, they and their families retreated from their London mansions. They had multiple homes to flee to at different seasons of the year; he didn’t even own the bed in which he slept.
His extended stay in the orphanage had not prepared him for the challenges he’d been confronting since meeting the youngest daughter of Gyles Sutton, the Earl of Standish. It had seemed the way of it that if one came to live within the walls of the orphanage at an early age, more often than not one would remain until laid in his grave. Some had considered their existence there a curse they would never be able to shake. Had he allowed that ominous prediction to remain unchallenged, Roger knew he would never have been allowed a glimpse into a world unlike any he had ever known, one that had long been solidified by great affluence and grandly imposing estates nestled in the rolling countryside northeast of Bath. Nor would he have ever become acquainted with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Recognizing himself as an outsider in more ways than one, he had hoped to divert the lady’s attention away from her aristocratic friends, many of whom she had known all her life and with whom she shared a relaxed familiarity. After all, he had been considered unusually handsome by many of the women he had met. Now that the younger Lord Randwulf had come home, however, his optimism for accomplishing that feat had plunged to its lowest ebb, all because of what Lord Sedgwick had brought into play with his plans for his son long years ago.
The resentment Roger now felt toward the male offspring of that family was like a hissing, spewing demon roiling within him; he could almost taste the bitter futility of his own aspirations and his ever-growing abhorrence of men like Colton Wyndham. But then, he was just as resentful of the other one desirous of having the girl, a duke’s son, no less. Riordan Kendrick! The two men had everything—looks, wealth, charm, and noble names, not to mention that both had been heroes in the latest confrontation against France—whereas he could claim to his credit not even a fair sampling of those same assets. When he didn’t even own the clothes on his back, what did he have to offer a lady well acquainted with affluence? Nothing but a mere pittance.
Not so long ago he had sat alone in the Suttons’ library, anxiously awaiting Lord Standish’s response to what had admittedly been a most presumptuous proposal of marriage. When, after a lengthy space of time, the elder had ended his discussion with his wife and daughter and joined him, Roger had suffered the greatest surprise and, in similar degrees, the most devastating disappointment. In a subdued and kindly tone, the elder had explained there was already in existence a contract between the Lady Adriana and Colonel Lord James Colton Wyndham. Furthermore, Lord Standish had added (possibly to remove any suspicion that he had merely fabricated this story to use as an excuse) that the papers dealing with the particular details of that arrangement had been signed by himself and Lord Sedgwick no less than ten years ago.
Aware of his own audacity in requesting Adriana’s hand in marriage, Roger had nevertheless been appreciative of Lord Standish’s honorable comportment. When he had then asked the elder what would nullify such an agreement, his lordship had given him little reason to hope that circumstances would change. The contract could only be voided by the death of the seventh Lord Randwulf or his ultimate refusal to accept the terms as stated. Considering the beauty of the maid, Roger had deemed the latter highly unlikely.
Frustrated as he had been with the man’s answer, Roger could hardly overlook the fact that, besides himself, there were a fairly sizable number of aristocrats yearning to have the girl. In view of the existing contract, Colton Wyndham, or Lord Randwulf as he would now be addressed in more formal circles, seemed the greatest obstacle to the vast majority of them. Close upon his heels was the other marquess, Riordan Kendrick, or better known to many as Lord Harcourt. He had also shown himself unrelenting in his desire to have the beauty. Only if Adriana were to reject those two or, more far-fetched, be snubbed by them in return, would less prestigious noblemen have a chance, which, in view of their sizable number, left the odds of a simple apprentice winning her somewhat laughable.
Until the afternoon Roger had asked for Adriana’s hand, he had only heard rumors of Riordan Kendrick. Then he had seen the fellow firsthand. After concluding his talk with Lord Standish, he had stalked away from Wakefield Manor with his head down, his heart sore, his lips mouthing rancorous words against the memory of the man who had proposed the contract in the first place. To his astonishment, his heel had caught on a paving stone, and in the next instant, he had found himself hurtling forward with arms and legs flaying wildly about as he strove frantically to regain his balance. The awareness of a darkly clothed form, stepping quickly aside, had entered into his consciousness barely an instant or two before he had plowed headlong into the roses and the bordering shrubbery growing alongside the walk.
That event had seemed to portend the collapse of the world around him. Feeling an overwhelming misery because of his hopeless situation, Roger had yearned just to lie there amid the thorns until the end came. Regrettably, the shadow had coalesced into a tall, handsome, nattily garbed gentleman who had proven solicitous enough to help him to his feet. Whatever meager aspirations he had still been nurturing at that point were completely sundered when he had recognized his good Samaritan as being none other than Lord Harcourt. The experience could’ve been likened to facing his final defeat. If Colton Wyndham were foolishly to reject his enormous advantage, then Roger could entertain no doubt that Riordan Kendrick would step boldly forward to claim the privileged spot the other had vacated. Both men were too good-looking to be considered anything other than rivals of whom a palt
ry, penniless suitor had to be enormously wary.
In stumbling away, Roger had hidden himself behind the nearest bush where, out of sheer wretchedness, he had heaved up the contents of his stomach. For the rest of the day, he had wallowed in misery and depression upon his narrow cot, unable to think of himself in any other vein than a man bereft of all hope in the near and distant future.
He had first met Lady Adriana in the latter part of the previous year after she and her maid, Maud, had ventured into his father’s mill to purchase a piece of woolen cloth as a gift for another servant. Having been instantly smitten by the lady’s regal beauty, Roger had eagerly engaged her in conversation and, on subsequent visits she had made to Bradford, had taken every opportunity to speak with her. He had even scraped up enough coins to purchase a small book of sonnets and, during one of her outings, had hurried out to press it into her hand. Willing to do anything to claim even a fragment of her attention, he had spoken of prior difficulties in his life after overhearing townspeople praising the compassion of the winsome maid. She had indeed proven sympathetic, and although he had realized his efforts to see her went against all propriety, he had started delivering gifts to her home and following her much like a homeless puppy. Perhaps his efforts had been similar to the wearing down of a wall, for she hadn’t sent him away when he had boldly attached himself to her entourage of friends and smitten suitors. Still, she had laid out rules by which he had had to adhere; to break them would have seen him banished from her presence. They were merely friends, she had insisted; nothing more could come of it. She had rigorously demonstrated that fact by maintaining a respectful distance between them; she hadn’t even allowed him to kiss her hand, much less that winsomely curved mouth he yearned to caress with his own. To have done so would have brought an end to their camaraderie, and he had not been willing to chance such a deed for fear of losing her altogether. A fine dusting of crumbs of her time was better by far than none at all.