Improper Page 3

  “Mrs. Tucket wasn’t very enthused to learn of Miss Lancaster,” Tobias said. “She feels as if she’s being pushed aside.”

  “Which she is,” Wexford pointed out helpfully.

  “I can’t imagine how she’ll react to Lady Pickering tomorrow.” Tobias couldn’t decide if he was dreading or anticipating it.

  “Lady Pickering has the patience of a particular bird of prey,” Lucien said with a smile.

  “And the brutality of one if you cross her.” MacNair’s shoulders twitched as he picked up his brandy, and Lucien laughed. “Not that I’ve ever been on her bad side, mind you. I think I’d run from London and never return.” MacNair leaned toward Lucien and lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “Why hasn’t she ever responded to our invitation to join the club?”

  All four of them were members of the Phoenix Club’s secret invitation committee. They, along with Mrs. Renshaw, who managed the lady’s side of the club, and two anonymous members, decided who within Society and without were invited to join.

  Lucien shrugged. “There are those who look down at the club.” He also kept his voice low.

  Wexford snorted. “Because they’re jealous. That can’t apply to Lady Pickering, however. Why would she be jealous of anyone or anything?”

  “While you’re probably right, I suspect she doesn’t want to align herself with the club because it may alienate some people with whom she would prefer to remain connected. And she won’t decline because I suspect she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings.” Because she’d been a close friend of his mother’s. That made sense to Tobias.

  A brief smile passed over Lucien’s lips. “Furthermore, I believe she very much supports the fact that the club includes women, even if we keep the sexes mostly separate. Indeed, that division is what keeps us respectable.”

  “I would think she’d join eventually,” MacNair said quietly. “The ladies’ club has four exceptionally admirable patronesses. Lady Pickering would fit right in.”

  Lucien snorted softly. “Don’t think I haven’t presented that argument. Mrs. Holland-Ward is a good friend of hers.” She was one of the patronesses along with Lady Dungannon, Lady Hargrove, and Mrs. Renshaw.

  “You still haven’t told us about Miss Wingate,” Wexford said, raising his voice back to a normal volume. “Are she and Lucien’s sister going to be rivals to be named the Season’s diamond?”

  Lucien snorted. “Cassandra will gleefully cede the attention. She’s not terribly enthused about having her Season, but our father will not allow her to push it off any longer.”

  “Especially since you’ve completely rejected his efforts to see you wed,” MacNair said. “He has to manage someone.”

  “I suppose it’s possible Miss Wingate could be the Season’s diamond.” Tobias had been surprised and perhaps a bit unnerved by her beauty. With a heart-shaped face graced with a slender nose and pink lips that formed a perfect bow and a gently curved figure, she possessed the form and features of an ideal English miss. But her dark red hair contrasted against the fair cream of her countenance made her stand out and demanded one ponder whether her temperament matched the serenity of her countenance. Or perhaps it was the spark in her brown eyes. With unmatched curiosity, her gaze assessed everything she encountered as if she were committing each item to memory.

  “She’s pretty?” Wexford asked.

  “Yes, but she has dark red hair.” Which Tobias found arresting. “Some will find it off-putting, I imagine.”

  “Then they aren’t worth her time,” MacNair said. He was well-used to people judging him based on the almond color of his skin, or at least regarding him as if he were out of place in Society.

  Wexford raised his glass. “Hear, hear.”

  They all shared in the toast.

  “Enough about my ward,” Tobias said. “I’ve far more pressing matters than dealing with her. Thankfully, Lady Pickering will have things well in hand so that I may focus on my own predicament.”

  “Ah, yes, the need for a wife,” Wexford said. He leaned back in his chair and, smirking, looked toward Lucien. “What about Lucien’s sister?”

  Lucien glowered at him in response.

  Tobias shook his head at Lucien. “You do realize she’s going to wed, and you won’t get a say.”

  “I know that.” He scowled. “But none of you can marry her, do you understand?”

  “I don’t even want to get married,” MacNair said defensively.

  “Nor do I,” Wexford put in. “At least not yet. Your sister is safe from us, and I won’t joke about her anymore.” He rolled his eyes to punctuate the statement—which told Tobias he just wouldn’t joke about her marriage prospects in front of Lucien.

  “You didn’t say anything.” Lucien speared Tobias with an expectant stare.

  “I’ve no plans to marry my friend’s sister. Besides, she’s far too young for my taste.” She brought to mind the woman Tobias had planned to marry two years ago. Until she’d accepted someone else’s proposal first. The entire affair had been humiliating. He’d believed they were perfectly suited only to discover her father preferred another suitor, the heir to a dukedom. And when Tobias had suggested that they elope to Gretna Green, she’d revealed herself to be a woman lacking maturity and demonstrating a hunger for notoriety. “I would prefer to court a lady who is not in her first Season. I might even prefer a widow.”

  “I suppose that removes your ward from consideration,” Wexford noted.

  “You can’t jest about that either,” Tobias said. “She’s my ward. That would be…improper.” He picked up his brandy glass and looked around the table. “Now, give me some names. I don’t have much time.”

  “Six weeks?” MacNair asked over the rim of his glass.

  “Five.” Tobias winced. He couldn’t lose his mother’s house, the location of every single one of his happy memories. He’d been sixteen, away at school, when she’d fallen from her horse. Her death had been utterly shocking, and the loss had left a hole in his heart that had never fully healed. Losing the childhood home that he’d shared with her would be a devastation he didn’t want to contemplate. That his father had put him in this predicament—using the place Tobias loved most to bend him to his will—had turned Tobias’s mild dislike of the man into seething contempt.

  Wexford grunted. “Not much bloody time.”

  “Precisely.” Tobias looked to MacNair beside him. “I need names.”

  “You’re looking at me? A man with no interest in the parson’s trap?” MacNair laughed, then sobered when Tobias only narrowed his eyes. “Fine. What about Mrs. Drummond? She’s a widow.”

  “She’s also at least fifteen years older than me. I need an heir.”

  “Older women are quite lovely though.” Lucien grinned, and the other two chuckled.

  “You lot are no help.” Tobias moved on to Wexford. “A name. And don’t be flippant.”

  Wexford touched his chest. “Me? As it happens, I’ve an excellent suggestion—Miss Jessamine Goodfellow.”

  Tobias tried to recall her and couldn’t. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing that I know of. She’s just a wallflower. She has two younger sisters who are already married.”

  “How do you know her?” Tobias found it odd that he wasn’t aware of her while Wexford, who was every bit a rake, was.

  “I go to Society events,” Wexford said with a measure of exasperation. “I am certain I danced with her once or twice last Season. If I remember correctly, she is rather intelligent. Didn’t mutter a thing about any of the Fs.”

  Fashion, food, and flowers. Most young women stuck to those three topics. And occasionally the weather.

  “How refreshing,” Tobias murmured. “Thank you for the worthwhile suggestion, Wexford.” He turned his gaze to Lucien. “Who do you recommend?”

  Lucien rubbed his fingers along his jaw. “Lady Alford has just joined the club. She’s a widow.”

  “Doesn’t she have several children?”
Tobias asked.

  “Yes, but you didn’t specify that your potential bride not have children.”

  “No, I did not, and I suppose it isn’t an obstacle.”

  “It also shows she can have children.” Wexford inclined his head. “Since providing an heir is likely important to you.”

  Tobias rested his elbow on the table and pressed his forehead into his palm. “I hate this. My father has ensured I approach this like a shopping excursion in which I search for the best product with an excess of haste.” The loathing he felt for his father heated anew.

  “You want to fall in love,” Lucien said softly. “Again.”

  Dropping his hand to the table, Tobias raised his head and glared at him. “I wasn’t in love.”

  Lucien shrugged. “You said you were.”

  “I was wrong. Kind of you to remind me of that.”

  “My apologies,” Lucien said, bowing his head briefly. “I thought you had moved past Lady Bentley.”

  Of course, he’d moved past Priscilla. After he changed his mind about eloping, she’d gone and told everyone that he’d tried to kidnap her. No one quite believed the kidnapping part, but when she’d insisted he’d tried to convince her to elope, they’d eaten that up like marzipan at Christmas. Overnight, he’d become a rogue, a scoundrel, an utter reprobate. And since they seemed to delight in casting him in such a role, he’d decided not to disabuse them of their assumptions. He’d immersed himself in dissolution and depravity.

  “Lady Bentley is an unfortunate memory. My attention is on the present and future, specifically the next few weeks. Indeed, I will need to formalize a betrothal in less than a bloody fortnight if I’m to schedule a wedding within the necessary timeframe.” Tobias tipped his head back and groaned. “This is impossible.”

  “Bloody reading of the banns takes forever,” MacNair muttered.

  “You could try for a special license,” Lucien suggested.

  Tobias lowered his head. “I don’t want to rely on that, but it’s good to know the possibility exists. This is so damned frustrating.” He finished the rest of his brandy and refilled his glass.

  MacNair leaned forward and grinned. “You could also dash off to Gretna Green. I’ve cousins near there who’d celebrate with you.”

  “I shall hope the special license will work rather than risk a long journey while it’s still winter. But I do thank you for the kind offer of your family’s hospitality.” Tobias gave him a silent toast before sipping his whisky. Setting his glass down with a muffled clack atop the tablecloth, he said, “All right, I’ll start with Miss Goodfellow. Please let me know if you think of or meet someone else. I can’t afford to pin all my hopes on one woman.” Not to mention, he may find Miss Goodfellow completely intolerable. Or perhaps she’d find him intolerable. In any case, he really needed to meet someone with whom he would suit.

  And yes, he supposed he did want to fall in love. Or at least develop some sort of affection for the woman who would be his wife. He didn’t want a cordial but dispassionate union like that of his parents. They’d both been happier when the other was someplace else. That was why he’d spent so much time with his mother—just the two of them—at the house she’d inherited from her grandmother.

  Lucien cupped his hands around his glass on the table and leaned forward, his dark gaze on Tobias. “This is a wonderful plan but, forgive me for asking, are you certain you’ll receive the invitations you need to accomplish this feat?”

  Since he’d reinvented himself as a rogue, his invitations were not always of the best caliber. He hadn’t cared. In fact, he’d reveled in his ignominy, particularly because it had irritated his father, who’d tried to press him into an unwanted marriage after he’d been jilted by Priscilla.

  But now his reputation mattered. He could practically hear his father chortling from beyond. Indeed, he’d probably anticipated this problem when he’d changed his will. Which meant he expected Tobias to fail and thus to lose his beloved mother’s house. And this was after he’d swindled the property from his father-in-law, demanding it as Tobias’s mother’s dowry. Tobias believed his mother’s bitterness toward her husband stemmed from losing the estate to him in the marriage contract. She’d often lamented that she wasn’t able to leave it to Tobias.

  Yes, his father was almost certainly laughing.

  Tobias curled his lip. “I’ve been on my best behavior since my father died. No gaming hells, no phaeton racing, and I gave up my mistress.”

  “Have you?” Lucien asked. “I heard you were seen running from her lodgings just this afternoon.”

  Glaring at Lucien, Tobias demanded, “Do you know everything?”

  Wexford snickered. “Yes, he does.”

  Lucien sat back in his chair. “Lady Pickering should be able to assist you, but you’ll have to do your part. The slightest misstep, such as continuing to see your mistress, and you’ll ruin your chances.”

  “As well as that of your ward,” MacNair said rather unnecessarily.

  It was too much. His father hadn’t even told him about Miss Wingate until he lay dying. He’d been the young woman’s guardian for two years and hadn’t said a word. Tobias wondered if he’d ever known the man at all.

  “While you’re considering potential wives for me, I will also take suggestions on how to mend my reputation.”

  “Align yourself with Lucien’s brother.” Wexford’s brows darted up as he exchanged a look with MacNair, who chuckled.

  “Brilliant idea,” the Scotsman said.

  Lucien groaned. “God, I wish that was a terrible suggestion. You do realize he’s mostly insufferable.”

  Tobias couldn’t help smiling. The relationship between the two brothers seemed complex, but then Tobias had no siblings, so what did he know? “He’s always pleasant to me.”

  Lucien grumbled something unintelligible before finishing off his brandy.

  Wexford clasped his hands on the table. “A fortnight to secure a betrothal with the wedding to follow three weeks later. We’ll make sure you find a wife, Overton.”

  “Thank you.”

  But would she be the woman he’d always dreamed of?

  Chapter 3

  Didn’t he have any maps at all?

  Since breakfast, Fiona had searched all of the lower shelves in the library. Time to employ the ladder and see what she could find up high.

  Pushing the ladder to the end of one long shelf, she began her methodical investigation. Perhaps there was a book of maps. Or a book with at least one map.

  She pulled a large tome from the shelf and balanced it on her hand as she opened the cover and read the title, The British Isles. That looked promising. Carefully turning pages, exultation bloomed within her as she finally came upon a map.

  “What are you doing up there?”

  Startled, Fiona lost her grip on the heavy book and watched in horror as it tumbled to the floor. She scrambled down the ladder and, in her haste, slipped.

  It was an absolute miracle that the earl managed to reach her in time, catching her in his arms before she landed on the floor. And it was an absolute shock to find herself in his embrace. The rich scent of sandalwood washed over her along with a surprising heat.

  Embarrassment. It had to be embarrassment, of course. What else would it be?

  Overton set her on her feet. “All right?”

  She nodded. “Yes, thank you. You surprised me is all.”

  He bent to retrieve the book and studied it for a moment.

  “Did I damage it?” She’d feel just awful if she had.

  “Not that I can tell.” He flipped open the cover. “The British Isles.” He looked over at her. “You’re interested in learning more about your homeland?”

  “I was looking for maps, actually.”

  “Maps?”

  “I like them. Very much.”

  He smiled as he set the book on a table. “Well, then let me delight you.”

  Something about the way he said those words sent a shiver
along her spine. She didn’t want to be delighted by him or any other gentleman.

  He’s your guardian. Think of him like a father or an older brother. It’s perfectly natural to be delighted by a family member and not at all dangerous.

  Dangerous? Is that how she thought of gentlemen? No. But maybe this gentleman was different.

  The earl went to a bookcase with drawers beneath the shelves. He opened the lowest one and pulled out several oversized pieces of parchment. “It’s not a large collection, but it’s better than none.” He set the maps on the table next to the book and opened one, laying it flat.

  Fiona rushed to join him, any hesitation she might have possessed forgotten. “This is the Empire of Russia.” She paused in reaching for the map, her fingers hovering above the paper.

  “Unfortunately, it’s from before Catherine the Great, so it’s no longer accurate.”

  “That’s all right. I like maps of all kinds, even if they are out of date.”

  “You can touch it,” he said softly, eyeing her hand.

  “I’ll be careful. Not like I was with the book.” She winced. “I’m terribly sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. I startled you with my arrival. I’m glad I was able to catch you before you sustained an injury. How would you dance if you’d twisted your ankle?”

  He made a good point. “I am grateful for your quick action. I would like to be able to dance.”

  “Of course you would.” He said it as if every young woman wanted nothing more than to dance. While it was true about her, she hoped he hadn’t made other assumptions. “Have you always been fond of maps?”

  “Yes, but we didn’t have very many. When I see how you live here, I confess that I wonder how our fathers were friends.”

  He pivoted, resting his hip against the table as he crossed his arms. “Why is that?”