The Choice of a Cavalier (The Heirs of the Aristocracy Book 3) Page 8

  Before Juliet could answer, the salon door opened and Alistair Comber stepped in, his gaze going from his daughter to his wife. He closed the door and said, “Did I hear you mention Lord Haddon?” he asked of his daughter.

  Juliet looked as if she might be about to cry. “I did. I didn’t do anything, though. He... had just come out of that fencing academy in St. James Street—”

  “Angelo’s?” he guessed, thinking he had just been near there not an hour ago.

  “Yes. But he wasn’t really paying attention to where he was going, and he was trying to pull on his coat,” Juliet explained as she pantomimed some of his motions. “And he had his foil in one hand, and it swung around and struck me—”

  “Struck you?” Julia’s eyes were wide with concern.

  “—Here,” Juliet continued, indicating the side of her waist. “Just as I was hailing a hackney. He apologized, of course, but he was staring at me and then suddenly fainted at my feet.”

  “Fainted?” Alistair repeated, his brows furrowing. Then he asked, “Were you... bleeding?”

  “No. It was just a hard hit. The blade didn’t slice through the fabric, although he has offered to pay for a modiste to replace my redingote. It just has a mark where the blade struck it. Beeker said she will try to brush it out.”

  “Was anyone else there?” Julia had one of her hands on her chest, two fingers worrying the chain of her favorite necklace.

  “Lord Bostwick. He came and helped the earl to his feet.”

  “And that was the end of it?” Alistair guessed.

  A flood of tears dripped from his daughter’s eyes, and she shook her head. “He insisted I slap him. He said it was only fair. An eye for an eye.” She struggled to find a hanky in her pocket, but Alistair was quick to offer his. She took it and pressed it to her cheeks.

  “Did you?” Julia’s eyes were wide with worry.

  She shook her head. “When I refused, he told me to punch him.”

  “Did you?” This time, it was her father who asked, and he did so with a bit of enthusiasm.

  “I punched him.”

  “Good girl!”

  “In the face?” Now Julia looked as if she might faint.

  “In his stomach.” Juliet shook her hand at the memory of how her knuckles and wrist had hurt from the impact. “Which is hard as a rock.”

  An odd sound emanated from Alistair just then, and he looked as if he were attempting to stifle a laugh. “Did you at least hurt him as much as it hurt you to do it?” he asked gently, his sudden humor having subsided.

  “Alistair!” Julia scolded.

  Juliet’s eyes darted sideways. “He bent over and let out an oomph sort of sound,” she replied. “When I accused him of wearing a wooden corset, he said he wasn’t. That it was just him.”

  Alistair had trouble stifling another guffaw and quickly cleared his throat. “And then what happened?”

  “I told him he needed to watch where he was pointing his weapon, and then Lord Bostwick led him away.” She sniffled and sighed. “Am I in trouble?”

  Julia moved the hand from her necklace to her mouth, covering it in an effort to hide her sudden amusement. “If his sister finds out what happened, he’ll never hear the end of it,” she claimed.

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to require he propose marriage,” Alistair said with a chuckle. “Besides, he’s old enough to be your father.”

  “Alistair!” Julia protested before she turned her attention back to her daughter. “He’s actually close to my age.”

  “Did he court you?” Juliet asked, her red-rimmed eyes wide.

  “Of course not. He was away. He was at university when I met your father. I don’t believe I ever even danced with the man before I married.”

  When Juliet turned her gaze on her father, he shook his head. “Don’t look at me. I never danced with him, either,” he said with a smirk.

  “Father,” Juliet said as she dimpled, the first sign of a smile since she’d been in one of the shops in Jermyn Street and had spotted one of her friends from finishing school.

  “I barely know the man,” Alistair continued. “I’m older than he is, and I was with the army in Belgium before I started working at the Harrington House stables,” he explained. “As the only heir to the Morganfield marquessate, Haddon wasn’t expected to help with the war effort at the time, but I’ve heard he fancies himself a cavalier. Fencing is his sport of choice.”

  “Then it’s a good thing he didn’t go to the Continent for the wars,” Julia remarked. “I rather doubt a foil could beat a bullet on the battlefield.”

  Alistair turned and stared at his wife, astonishment evident on his features. “No, but a bayonet could,” he whispered, remembering all too well what war against the French had been like. As the second son of an earl, he had been an officer, although he tended to spend most of his time working undercover, scouting ahead or spying on the enemy from behind their lines.

  His wife stared at him a moment before she dipped her head. “Apologies.”

  He was quick to wrap an arm around her shoulders and kiss her on the side of her head. “No need. You spoke the truth,” he murmured.

  Juliet swallowed as she watched her parents in their moment of quiet. Her father rarely spoke of his time in Belgium. Rarely mentioned the war against Napoleon. Now she wondered if he had been wounded. If he had lost friends to bullets and bayonets. But now wasn’t the time to ask about such things.

  “It matters not if Lord Haddon considers himself a cavalier. You needn’t worry about having to marry the man just because you punched him in the gut,” Alistair said to his daughter.

  Juliet nodded her understanding and let out a breath. “May I go to my room and change for dinner?”

  “Of course,” her mother replied as she stepped aside. She watched as Juliet took her leave of the salon, and then, when the door had closed again, her gaze settled on her husband. “You’re incorrigible,” she accused.

  “But you love me for it,” Alistair replied as he moved to take her into his arms. After a moment, when Julia didn’t seem to relax into his hold, he asked, “What is it?”

  “She’s one-and-twenty. She doesn’t have any suitors—”

  “Well, not at the moment, but a new Season will start in just a couple of months,” he reminded her.

  “I fear the time she spends with horses makes her less attractive to those that might otherwise consider her for marriage.”

  “Nonsense,” Alistair argued. “She’ll be that much more attractive to a man who deserves her. To a man who has an appreciation for horseflesh. Maybe someone who owns a race horse or two, or who likes to ride every day.”

  “Do you know such a man?” Julia asked as she lifted her head from his shoulder.

  Alistair inhaled slowly. “I know of many, of course, but I cannot think of one I might allow her to marry,” he murmured.

  “She’s an earl’s granddaughter,” Julia reminded him, thinking of Alistair’s father, the Earl of Aimsley.

  “Two times over,” he said, a reminder that she was the only daughter of the Earl of Mayfield. “Do you want her married to an aristocrat?”

  “Only if he loves horses in addition to her, I suppose,” she replied. “I almost wish Haddon wasn’t so pompous, or I might suggest you have a word with him. He’s still not married.”

  “He’s old enough to be her father!” Alistair claimed. “And he has become a bit high on his horse of late. I cannot even fathom why.”

  “I hear his mother is quite upset with him. Lady Morganfield wants a grandchild—”

  “More?” Alistair interrupted. “Bostwick has given her four of them,” he said, referring to George Bennett-Jones, who was married to the marchioness’ only daughter, Elizabeth.

  “An heir for him,” Julia argued. “Whoever Haddon marries will want for nothing. There’s quite a fortune there.”

  “Yes, but what’s a fortune worth if you have to spend your life with a pompous ass?”
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  Julia gave her head a shake. “Indeed.” She regarded him for a moment and then furrowed a brow. “Where did you come from? When you came in here?”

  Alistair grinned, about to give her a cheeky answer. Instead, he said, “My study. I just arrived home a few minutes ago and was reading my correspondence. I heard you admonish our daughter about her late arrival and thought nothing of it until I heard her mention Haddon.”

  “Ah,” Juliet murmured. “Well, I should go up and change for dinner.”

  “I’ll join you, and if you’d like, I’ll attempt to delay your dressing by at least a half-hour.” He remembered the bottle of her favorite perfume he had purchased at Floris, but decided he could wait until the morrow to give it to her. “What say you?”

  Julia blushed, much like she had done with him over twenty years ago. “I’d like that very much.”

  The two hurried up the stairs.

  They were only a few minutes late for dinner.

  Chapter 12

  Eating Crow

  Meanwhile, at Carlington House in Mayfair

  The commotion that sounded from the entry had Adeline Carlington, Marchioness of Morganfield, hurrying to the door of her ground floor salon to discover her husband and son had returned.

  She stood on tiptoe, intending to kiss the marquess’ check. At the last second, David turned his head and captured her lips with his own as an arm went around her waist and pulled her against the front of his body.

  Having paid witness to his parents’ lusty behavior on more than one occasion, Christopher rolled his eyes and headed into the study. He moved to the credenza behind the desk and poured a finger’s worth of brandy into a glass, his mind on the events of the afternoon.

  On the cutting words that George had spoken whilst they were at White’s.

  Pompous ass.

  Is that really what everyone thought of him?

  And when had it started?

  He couldn’t remember behaving in such a manner. He had thought he was well regarded by those in the aristocracy. Mothers still brought their marriageable daughters to him at balls and soirées, insisting on introductions. His fellow unmarried bucks still invited him to the card tables at house parties. To play billiards. To ride in the park during the fashionable hour.

  But more importantly, why hadn’t he ever met the young lady he had nearly impaled with his foil this afternoon? She was obviously a young woman of quality. Her clothes were evidence of it, as were her boots, which he remembered seeing up close when he had regained consciousness and discovered he was on the pavement in front of Angelo’s. A rather indignant lady’s maid had been attached to her arm.

  What had George called her?

  The name was at the edge of his brain. A name from a play. A tragedy, although the only tragedy on this day had been what she must be left thinking about him.

  A libertine. A rake. A rogue.

  A dunderhead.

  He had begged her to hurt him. To slap him. To get even for his having hit her with his foil, although he couldn’t quite remember exactly what he had done to be caught on the pavement in the first place. Every time the memory flitted at the edge of his brain, it flew away before he could grab onto it.

  When his attempt to remember failed once again, he instead concentrated on his memory of her.

  On any other day, would he have been able to walk past her without a second look? Ignore her silken hair the color of honey? Avoid staring into her blue eyes? Skip thinking of the figure beneath the fitted wool redingote? Forget how utterly enthralled he’d been when she punched him and then seemed so sorry she had done it?

  Her poor hand.

  She probably hadn’t punched anything harder than a pillow in her entire life, and now she probably wouldn’t punch anything again for the rest of it.

  Who was she? He closed his eyes and let his mind drift a moment. Her name finally came in a flash.

  Juliet.

  Such a beautiful name. So perfect for her.

  Although the name didn’t portend a happily-ever-after for Shakespeare’s character, surely this young woman deserved one.

  She was young—too young for him, surely—but what if she wasn’t? What if she was really twenty or so? What if she wasn’t betrothed? What if she wasn’t being courted by someone?

  What if he could marry her?

  He blinked, stunned that the thought didn’t have him recoiling in horror. The thought, in fact, was a rather welcome one.

  Juliet, as his wife.

  Kissing him with the same determination she had displayed when she had punched him. Scolding him when he needed a reminder he’d been bad. Praising him when he’d done something right. Making love to him with a fervor matched only by his determination to make her his.

  He could imagine squiring her about town, firm in the knowledge she wasn’t some shrinking violet. That she would stand up for herself should some old biddy imply she wasn’t worthy of being his countess. That she would one day make an excellent marchioness.

  That she would make him proud.

  Christopher took a sip of his brandy and turned to make his way out to the hall in search of his mother, completely unaware of how his father stared at him from where he sat on the edge of his desk.

  Until Christopher had the niggling feeling someone was watching him. “Father!” he said, nearly spilling his brandy.

  “Son,” David replied, his brows furrowing. “Are you all right?”

  Christopher considered how to answer. “I suppose that depends. If I told you I had someone in mind to marry—”

  “Did you hit your head?”

  Blinking, Christopher stared at his father. “How did you know?”

  David had to resist the urge to show too much humor. He had spent the last five minutes watching Christopher as he ruminated on something that had his attention so completely, Christopher wasn’t even aware David was in the same room, sitting not five feet away.

  Besides, his son had just said something about marriage.

  “I’d about given up on you ever finding your future marchioness,” the current marquess murmured. “At least, while I’m still alive.”

  Christopher glanced into the hall, sure his mother was back in her salon. “As had I,” he replied. “I need to speak with Mother.” He left the study, his father staring after him as if he’d grown a second head.

  Adeline looked up from her escritoire and regarded her son with an elegantly arched brow. “You look as if you’ve lost your best friend.”

  Christopher allowed a nod and settled into the chair nearest his mother’s, the glass of brandy dangling from two fingers. “George told me I’m a pompous...” He caught himself and swallowed the last word.

  “Ass,” his mother finished for him. “’Tis true. At least it has been for the past couple of years.”

  “Mother!”

  She shrugged in the way he remembered Italians doing it. As if whatever he had just said was being dismissed out of hand. “You turned forty and have been horse high ever since.”

  Christopher furrowed a brow. “Do you mean ‘high on my horse,’ perhaps?”

  “That, too.”

  He couldn’t help but grin even though he felt as if he wanted to bawl like a baby just then. “Why didn’t you say something? To knock me off my high horse?”

  Adeline set down her quill and sighed dramatically. “You are a grown man. It’s not my place to hit you.”

  Reminded of being hit earlier that afternoon, he said, “I encouraged a young lady to punch me today.” He went on to explain what he remembered, including the punch to his stomach.

  “Have you been introduced to her?” Adeline asked, her eyes bright with amusement. “She sounds perfect for you.”

  Christopher’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected his mother to say such a thing, at least without first meeting the young woman. “Really? Because... I was thinking the same thing.”

  Adeline straightened in her chair, glancing about as if she th
ought she might be the brunt of a joke. “Who is she?”

  Christopher inhaled to reply and then let the air out. “I was hoping you might know. I remember George saying her name was Juliet.”

  “Juliet Comber?”

  Practically jumping out of his chair, Christopher said, “Yes! That’s her.” His eyes darted sideways. “Who is she?”

  Adeline giggled, a delicate hand moving to cover her mouth as the musical sound filled the salon. Christopher was quite sure he had never heard his mother giggle before. “Why are you so amused?” Then his eyes widened in horror. “Oh, God no, she’s already married.”

  Sobering, Adeline shook her head. “No. Not unless she married this past week,” she countered. “She’s the daughter of Alistair Comber and Lady Julia Comber.” When he didn’t immediately react, she added happily, “Mayfield and Aimsley are her grandfathers.”

  Two earls for grandfathers?

  “That’s magnificent,” Christopher whispered. “But why haven’t I met her before?”

  Adeline angled her head and said, “Probably because you’re old enough to be her father. She’s just one-and-twenty, I think.”

  No longer so excited, Christopher drained his brandy. “I wouldn’t be the first to take a far younger woman to wife,” he said defensively.

  “True.”

  “And I do think she was impressed by how hard my belly is.” At his mother’s obvious curiosity, he added, “She asked if I was wearing a wooden corset. After she punched me,” he felt compelled to add.

  “She learned that from her father,” Adeline said.

  “Is he a bare-knuckle fighter?”

  Adeline made a sound of disbelief. “I cannot believe you do not remember Mr. Comber. He helped at the auction when you bought your black shires,” she replied. Then her brows drew together. “Did you hit your head?”

  Christopher decided it better he not deny it. Apparently, it was evident to everyone he had. “I fainted just after I hit Miss Comber with my foil. So, yes, I think I hit my head on the pavement.” His hand lifted to the side of his head, his fingers gingerly feeling for the knot that was now rather large. And painful.