One Tempting Proposal
An
Accidental Heirs Novel
Christy
Carlyle
Genre: Historical
Romance
Publisher: Avon
Impulse
On-Sale:
11/17/2015 |
ISBN:
9780062428011
Becoming engaged?
Simple. Resisting temptation? Impossible
Sebastian Fennick,
the newest Duke of Wrexford, prefers the straightforwardness of mathematics to
romantic nonsense. When he meets Lady Katherine Adderly at the first ball of
the season, he finds her as alluring as she is disagreeable. His title may now
require him to marry, but Sebastian can’t think of anyone less fit to be his
wife, even if he can’t get her out of his mind.
After five seasons
of snubbing suitors and making small talk, Lady Kitty has seen all the ton has
to offer…and she’s not impressed. But when Kitty’s overbearing father demands
she must marry before her beloved younger sister can, she proposes a plan to
the handsome duke. Kitty’s schemes always seem to backfire, but she knows this
one can’t go wrong. After all, she’s not the least bit tempted by Sebastian, is
she?
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Chapter 2
Cambridgeshire, May, 1891
Slashing
the air with a sword was doing nothing to improve Sebastian Fennick’s mood. As
he thrust, the needle-thin foil bending and arching through the air and sending
tingling reverberations along his hand, he glared across at his opponent,
though he doubted she could see any better than he could from behind the tight
mesh of her fencing mask.
His
sister parried before offering a spot-on riposte of her own, her foil bowing in
a perfect semicircle as she struck him.
“Are
you making any sort of effort at all?”
Seb bit
back the reply burning the tip of his tongue. Fencing was the least of his
concerns. In the last month he’d learned of the death of a cousin he’d barely
known and inherited the responsibility for one dukedom, three thousand acres of
land, hundreds of tenants, twenty-eight staff members, one London residence,
and a country house with so many rooms, he was still counting. He could find no
competitive pleasure in wielding a lightweight foil when his mind brimmed with
repairs, meetings, investments, and invitations to social events that spanned
the rest of the calendar year.
And all
of it was nothing to the bit of paper in his waistcoat pocket, separated by two
layers of fabric from the scar on his chest, dual reminders of what a fool he’d
been, how one woman’s lies nearly ended his life.
He
wouldn’t open her letter. Instead, he’d take pleasure in burning the damn
thing.
Never
again. Never would he allow himself to be manipulated as he had been in the
past. He had to put the past from his mind altogether.
Fencing
wasn’t doing the trick. Give him a proper sword and let him dash it against a
tree trunk. Better yet, give him a dragon to slay. That might do quite nicely,
but this dance of lunges and feints only made his irritation bubble over.
Yet his
sister didn’t deserve his ire, and he’d no wish to stifle her enthusiasm for
the newest of her myriad interests.
“I fear
fencing and I do not suit, Pippa.” As she returned to en garde position,
preparing for another strike, Seb hastened to add, “Nor shall we ever.”
Pippa
sagged in disappointment when he reached up to remove his fencing mask. “I’d
hoped you might find it invigorating. A pleasant challenge.”
In
truth, his mathematical mind found the precision of the sport appealing, and
the physical exertion was refreshing. But when he’d inherited the dukedom of
Wrexford, Seb left his mathematics career at Cambridge behind. And weren’t
there a dozen tasks he should be attending to rather than waving a flexible bit
of steel about at his sister?
“Invigorating,
yes. Challenging, absolutely. Pleasant? No.”
When he
began removing his gloves and unbuttoning the fencing jacket Pippa insisted he
purchase, she raised a hand to stop him.
“Wait.
We must do this properly.” She approached and offered him her hand as if they
were merely fellow sportsmen rather than siblings. “Politeness is an essential
element of fencing.”
Seb
cleared his throat, infused his baritone with gravitas, and shook his younger
sister’s hand. “Well done, Miss Fennick.”
She’d
tucked her fencing mask under her sword arm and met his gaze with eyes the same
unique shade as their father’s. Along with her dark hair and whiskey brown
eyes, Pippa had inherited their patriarch’s love for mathematics and sporting
activity of every kind.
“Fine
effort, Your Grace.” And father’s compassion too, apparently.
Pippa
smiled at him, her disappointment well-hidden or forgotten, and Seb returned
the expression. Then her words, the sound of his honorific at the end, settled
in his mind. Your Grace. It still sounded odd to his ears.
Seb and
his sister had been raised for academic pursuits, children of a mathematician
father and a mother with as many accomplishments as her daughter now boasted.
Formality, titles, rules—none of it came naturally. The title of Duke of
Wrexford had passed to him, but it still rankled and itched, as ill-fitting as
the imprisoning fencing mask he’d been relieved to remove.
As they
exited the corner of the second ballroom Pippa had set out as her fencing
strip, she turned one of her inquisitive glances on him.
“Perhaps
you’d prefer boxing, like Grandfather.” Their grandfather had been as well
known for his love of pugilism as his architectural designs, and had reputedly
been one of Gentleman Jackson’s best pupils.
Taller
and broader than many of his classmates, Seb had engaged in his own share of
scuffles in youth, and he’d been tempted to settle a few gentlemanly
disagreements with his fists, but he never enjoyed fighting with his body as
much as sparring with his intellect. Reason. Logic. Those were the weapons a
man should bring to a dispute.
“Unless
you’re like Oliver and can’t abide the sight of blood.”
It
seemed his sister still sparred. Standing on the threshold of Sebastian’s
study, Oliver Treadwell lifted his hands, settled them on his hips, and heaved
a frustrated sigh.
“I did
consider medical school, Pip. I can bear the sight of blood better than most.”
Ollie’s eyes widened as he scanned the two of them. “What in heaven’s name is
that awful getup you two are wearing?”
Seb
didn’t know if it was his lack of enthusiasm for fencing or Ollie’s jibe about
their costumes that set her off, but the shock of seeing Pippa lift her foil,
breaking a key point of protocol she’d been quite insistent upon—“Never lift a
sword when your opponent is unmasked”—blunted the amusement of watching Ollie
rear back like a frightened pony.
“Fencing
costumes,” she explained through clenched teeth. “I tried instructing
Sebastian, though he says the sport doesn’t suit him.” She hadn’t actually
touched Ollie with the tip of her foil and quickly lowered it to her side, but
the movement failed to ease the tension between them.
Turning
back to Seb, she forced an even expression. “I’ll go up and change for
luncheon.” She offered Ollie a curt nod as she passed him, her wide fencing
skirt fluttering around her ankles. At the door, she grasped the frame and
turned back. “And don’t call me Pip. No one calls me that anymore.”
“Goodness.
When did she begin loathing me?” Ollie watched the doorway where Pippa exited
as if she might reappear to answer his query. “Women are terribly inscrutable,
aren’t they?”
Seb
thought the entire matter disturbingly clear, but he suspected Pippa would deny
her infatuation with Oliver as heatedly as Ollie would argue against the claim.
They’d been friends since childhood, and Ollie had been an unofficial member of
the Fennick family from the day he’d lost his parents at twelve years old. Seb
wasn’t certain when Pippa began viewing Ollie less as a brotherly friend and
more as a man worthy of her admiration.
As much
as he loved him, Seb secretly prayed his sister’s interest in the young buck
would wane. Treadwell had never been the steadiest of fellows, particularly
when it came to matters of the heart, and Seb would never allow anyone to hurt
Pippa.
“Welcome
to Roxbury.” He practiced the words as he spoke them, hoping the oddness of
playing host in another man’s home would eventually diminish.
“Thank
you. It is grand, is it not? Had you ever visited before?”
“Once,
as a young child. I expected it to be less imposing when I saw it again as a
man.” It hadn’t been. Not a whit. Upon arriving thirty days prior, he’d stood
on the threshold a moment with his mouth agape before taking a step inside.
Seb
caught Ollie staring at the ceiling, an extraordinary web of plastered
fan-vaulting meant to echo the design in the nave of an abbey the late duke had
visited in Bath. Every aspect of Roxbury had been designed with care, and yet
to match the whims of each successive duke and duchess. Somehow its hodgepodge
of architectural styles blended into a harmonious and impressive whole.
“You
mentioned an urgent matter. Trouble in London?” A few years older than his
friend, Seb worried about Ollie with the same ever-present paternal concern he
felt for his sister.
After
trying his hand at philosophy, chemistry, and medicine, Ollie had decided to
pursue law and currently studied at the Inner Temple with high hopes of being
called to the bar and becoming a barrister within the year.
“No,
all is well, but those words don’t begin to describe my bliss.”
Bowing
his head, Sebastian closed his eyes a moment and drew in a long breath,
expanding his chest as far as the confines of his fencing jacket would allow.
It had to be a woman. Another woman. Seb had never known a man as eager to be
enamored. Unfortunately, the mysteries of love couldn’t be bound within the
elegance of a mathematical equation. If they could, Ollie’s equation would be a
simple one. Woman plus beauty equals infatuation. If Ollie’s interest in this
woman or that ever bloomed into constancy, Seb could rally a bit happiness for
his friend.
Constancy.
An image of black hair came to mind with a piercing pain above his brow. How
could he advocate that Ollie learn constancy when his own stubborn heart brought
him nothing but misery?
“Tell
me about her.”
Ollie’s
face lit with pleasure. “She’s an angel.”
The
last had been “a goddess” and Seb mentally calculated where each designation
might rank in the heavenly hierarchy.
“With
golden hair and sapphire eyes …” Ollie’s loves were always described in the
same terms one might use when speaking of a precious relic Mr. Petrie had dug
up in Egypt, each of them carved in alabaster, gilded, and bejeweled.
“Slow
down, Ollie. Let’s start with her name.”
“Hattie.
Harriet, though she says she dislikes Harriet. I think it’s lovely. Isn’t it a
beautiful name, really?”
Too
preoccupied with unbuttoning himself from his fencing gear, Sebastian didn’t
bother offering a response. Ollie rarely had any trouble rambling on without
acknowledgment.
“She’s
the daughter of a marquess. Clayborne. Perhaps you know him.”
Seb
arched both brows and Ollie smiled. “Yes, I know. You’ve only been a duke for
the space of a month. Don’t they introduce you to all of the other aristocrats
straight away, then?”
A
chuckle rumbled up in Seb’s chest, and for a moment the burdens that had piled
up since the last duke’s passing slipped away. He laughed with Ollie as they
had when they were simpler men, younger, less distracted with love or
responsibilities. Seb felt lighter, and he held a smile so long his cheeks
began to ache before the laughter ebbed and he addressed the serious matter of
Oliver’s pursuit of a marquess’s daughter.
“I
think the better question is whether you’ve met Harriet’s father. What are your
intentions toward this young woman?”
Ollie
ducked his chin and deflated into a chair. “Goodness, Bash, you sound a bit
like you’re Hattie’s father.”
Only
Ollie called him Bash, claiming he’d earned it for defending him in a fight
with a particularly truculent classmate. The nickname reminded him of all their
shared battles as children, but if Ollie thought its use would soften him or
make him retreat, he was wrong. Ollie needed someone to challenge him, to curb
his tendency to rush in without considering the consequences. If he lost
interest in this young woman as he had with all the others, a breach-of-promise
suit brought by a marquess could ruin Ollie’s burgeoning legal career.
“I
intend to marry her.”
“May I
ask how long you’ve been acquainted with the young lady?” Mercy, he did sound
like a father. As the eldest, he’d always led the way, and with the loss of
their parents, Seb had taken on a parental role with his sister too. Pippa
might wish to marry one day, and it was his duty to ensure any prospective
groom wasn’t a complete and utter reprobate.
“Not
all of us fall in love with our childhood friend.” The barb had no doubt been
meant to bring Seb’s past heartbreak to mind, but Seb thought of Pippa.
Thankfully, she hadn’t heard Ollie’s declaration.
“Indeed.
I would merely advise you to take more time and court Lord Clayborne’s daughter
properly. Her father will expect no less.”
Even
with a properly drawn-out courtship, a marquess would be unlikely to allow his
daughter to marry a man who’d yet to become a barrister and may not succeed
once he had.
“I must
offer for her now. Soon. She’s coming out this season, and I couldn’t bear for
another man to snatch her up.”
“You
make her sound like a filly at market.”
“Will
you come to London and meet her? I know you’ll approve of the match once you’ve
met her.”
Seb had
already given into the necessity of spending the season in London at Wrexford
House. Pippa had no interest in anything in London aside from the Reading Room
at the British Museum, but their aristocratic aunt, Lady Stamford, insisted he
give his sister a proper coming out. She’d also reminded him that a new duke
should meet and be met by others in their slice of society.
“You
hardly need my approval, Ollie.”
“I need
more than that.”
If he
meant money, Seb could help. Cousin Geoffrey and his steward maintained the
estate well over the years, investing wisely and spending with restraint.
Sebastian had met with the estate’s steward once since arriving at Roxbury and
emphasized his desire to match his predecessor’s good fiscal sense.
“We
should discuss a settlement of some kind.”
Waving
away Seb’s words, Ollie stood and strode to the window, looking out on one of
Roxbury’s gardens, perfectly manicured and daubed with color by the first
blooms of spring.
Oliver
Treadwell had never been a hard man to read. Seb knew him to be intelligent,
but he used none of his cleverness for artifice. A changeable man, Ollie blew
hot and cold with his passions, but he expressed himself honestly. Now Seb
sensed something more. Another emotion undercut the giddiness he’d expressed
about his most recent heart’s desire.
His
friend seemed to fall into contemplation of the scenery and Sebastian stood to
approach, curious about what had drawn Ollie’s attention. The sound of Ollie’s
voice stopped him short, the timbre strangely plaintive, almost childlike.
“She
says her father won’t allow her to marry until her older sister does. Some
strange rule he’s devised to make Harriet miserable.”
It
sounded like an unreasonable expectation to Sebastian. At two and twenty, Pippa
found contentment in pursuing her studies and political causes. She’d indicated
no desire to take any man’s name. Never mind the way she looked at Oliver. If
they had a younger sister, the girl might have a long wait to wed if some
ridiculous rule required Pippa to do so first. Then again, not all women were
as reticent to marry as Pippa.
“Does
this elder sister have any prospects?”
Ollie’s
whole body jolted at Seb’s question and he turned on him, smile wide, blue eyes
glittering.
“She
has more suitors than she can manage, but she’s not easily snared. I assure you
she’s just as beautiful as Hattie, with golden hair …”
“Yes,
yes. Eyes of emerald or sapphire or amethyst.”
Oliver
tugged on his ear, a frown marring his enthusiastic expression. “Well, she is
lovely. Truly. You should meet her.”
A
sickening heaviness sank in his gut at the realization of Oliver’s real purpose
for their urgent meeting.
“You’re
very determined to convince me, Oliver.”
Ollie
sighed wearily, a long gusty exhale, before sinking down into a chair again.
“You only call me Oliver when you’re cross. Won’t you hear me out?”
Sebastian
had a habit of counting. Assigning numbers to the objects and incidents in his
life gave him a satisfying sense of order and control. Not quite as much
satisfaction as conquering a maddening equation, but enough to make the
incidents he couldn’t control—like the small matter of inheriting a title and a
home large enough to house a hundred—more bearable.
He
wished he’d counted how many times he’d heard those same words—“Won’t you hear
me out?”—from Ollie. Whatever the number, it would certainly be high enough to
warn him off listening to the man’s mad schemes again.
“All
right, Ollie. Have it out then.”
“Do you
never consider finding yourself a wife?”
“No.”
“You
must.”
“Must
I? Why? I have quite enough to occupy me.”
Ollie
took on a pensive air and squinted his left eye. “The estate seems to be in
good order, and you’ve given up your post at the university. Pippa has her own
pursuits.” He glanced again at the high ceiling over their heads. “Won’t you be
lonely in these grand, empty rooms, Bash?”
Sentiment?
That was how Ollie meant to convince him? Seb had put away sentimentality ten
years before, dividing off that part of himself so that he could move forward
with the rest of his life. If its power still held any sway, he would have
opened the letter in his waistcoat pocket the day it arrived.
“I will
manage, Ollie.”
And how
would a woman solve anything? In Seb’s experience, women either wreaked havoc
on a man’s life, or filled it with noise and color and clever quips, like his
mother and sister. Either option would allay loneliness, but he did not suffer
from that affliction. Sentimental men were lonely. Not him. Even if he did live
in a house with ceilings so tall his voice echoed when he chattered to himself.
He
narrowed his eyes at Ollie, and his friend sat up in his chair, squared his
shoulders, and tipped his chin to stare at Seb directly.
“She’s
the eldest daughter of a marquess, Bash, and much more aware of the rules of
etiquette among the wealthy and titled than you are.”
“Then
we won’t have much in common.”
Ollie
groaned. “She would be a fine partner, a formidable ally in this new life
you’ve taken on.”
“No.”
Denial
came easily, and he denounced Ollie’s mad implication that the two of them
should marry sisters from the same family. But reason, that damnable voice in
his head that sounded like his father, contradicted him.
At two
and thirty, he’d reached an age for matrimony, and with inherited property and
a title came the duty to produce an heir. No one wanted Roxbury and the
Wrexford dukedom to pass to another distant cousin. If he had any doubts about
his need for a wife, he was surrounded by women who’d happily remind him. His
aunt, Lady Stamford, had sent a letter he’d found waiting for him the day he’d
arrived at Roxbury suggesting that marriage was as much his duty as managing
the estate. Pippa also dropped hints now and then that having a sister-in-law
would be very nice indeed.
Ollie
had yet to multiply the bride-taking encouragement, but he was making a fine
effort at rectifying the oversight.
“Acquiring
a dukedom is a vast undertaking.” Ollie stretched out his arms wide to
emphasize the vastness of it all. “Why not have a lovely woman by your side in
such an endeavor?”
“I
didn’t acquire it, Oliver. It passed to me.” He loathed his habit of stating
the obvious.
A
lovely woman by his side. The notion brought a pang, equal parts stifled desire
and memory-soaked dread. He’d imagined it once, making plans and envisioning
the life he’d create with the woman he loved. But that was all sentiment and it
had been smashed, its pieces left in the past. Now practicality dictated his
choices. He spared emotion only for his family, for Pippa and Ollie.
Ollie
watched him like a convicted man awaiting his sentence.
His
friend’s practical argument held some appeal. A marquess’s daughter would know
how to navigate the social whirl, and Seb liked the notion of not devoting all
of his own energy to tackling that challenge. He might even find a moment to
spare for mathematics, rather than having to forfeit his life’s work entirely
to take on the duties of a dukedom.
And it
would give Ollie a chance at happiness. Perhaps this younger daughter of Lord
Clayborne’s would be the woman to inspire constancy in Ollie, and Seb might
assist his friend to achieve the family and stability he’d lost in childhood.
Seb
spoke on an exhaled sigh. “I suppose I do need a wife.” And there he went
stating the obvious again.
Oliver
turned into a ten-year-old boy before his eyes, as giddy as a pup. If the man
had a tail, he’d be wagging it furiously. He jumped up and reached out to clasp
Seb on the shoulder.
“Just
meet Lady Katherine, Seb. See if you suit. That’s all I ask.” It wasn’t quite
all he asked, but Seb had learned the futility of quibbling with a giddy
Oliver.
A
marquess’s daughter? Lady Katherine sounded like just the sort of woman a duke
should seek to marry. Seb could contemplate marriage as a practical matter, but
nothing more.
Would
he ever feel more?
He
hadn’t allowed himself an ounce of interest in a woman in ten years, not in a
lush feminine figure, nor in a pair of fine eyes, not even in the heady mix of
a woman’s unique scent under the notes of some floral essence.
“I
think you’ll enjoy London during the season.” Ollie couldn’t manage sincerity
when uttering the declaration. His mouth quivered and he blinked one eye as if
he’d just caught an irritating bit of dust.
Seb
doubted he’d enjoy London during the crush of the social season. As a Cambridge
man raised in a modest home in the university’s shadow, he’d enjoyed occasional
jaunts to London but had always been content to return to his studies. As he
opened his mouth to say as much to Ollie, Pippa strode into the room and drew
their attention to the doorway.
She’d
changed into one of the day dresses their aunt insisted she choose for the
upcoming season, though Pippa signaled her disdain for the flouncy yellow
creation by swiping down the ruffles that kept popping up on her chest and
around her shoulders.
“Luncheon
is laid in the morning room. Are you joining us, Oliver?”
Ollie
stared wide-eyed at Pippa a moment and then turned to Seb.
“We’re
almost finished here,” Seb assured her. “Ollie and I will join you
momentarily.”
She
nodded but offered the still speechless Ollie a sharp glance before departing.
After a
moment, Ollie found his voice. “I’ve never seen her so …”
“Irritated?”
“Feminine.”
Seb
took a turn glaring at Ollie. The man had just been thrilled at the prospect of
a match with Lady Harriet. He had no business noticing Pippa’s femininity,
especially after failing to do so for over a dozen years.
“She
chose a few new dresses.” Seb cleared his throat to draw Ollie’s attention.
“It’s
odd,” Ollie said, his face still pinched in confusion. “I’ve known Pippa most
of my life and never truly thought of her as a woman.”
His
friend’s words put Seb’s mind at ease, but he suspected Pippa wouldn’t find
them nearly as heartening.
“Ollie,
let’s return to the matter at hand.”
“Yes,
of course.” Ollie rubbed his hands together and grinned, the matter of Pippa
quickly forgotten. “Will you come to the Clayborne ball and meet Lady
Katherine?”
“I
will.” Meeting the woman seemed a simple prospect. Practical. Reasonable. A
perfectly logical decision in the circumstances.
“If
you’re still planning on presenting Pippa this season, by all means, bring her
along too,” Ollie added. “Why leave her to ramble this house alone?”
Pippa
preferred to spend her days at Cambridge where she’d been studying mathematics
for much of the previous year. Yet Seb felt the pull of his aunt’s assertion.
His sister should have a London season, or at least spend some time among
London society. He wished to open as many doors for Pippa as he could. Give her
choices and options. If his title meant his sister might be more comfortably
settled in life, all the better.
“She’s
not convinced of the appeal of a London season.” Seb worried neither of them
was equipped for it either. Gowns and finely tailored clothing aside, they
didn’t possess the aristocratic polish others would expect of a duke and his
sister.
Ever
undaunted, Ollie grinned. “Then you must convince her.”
Seb
lifted his gaze to the ceiling, following the tracery, lines in perfect symmetry,
equidistant and equal in length, forming a perfect whole. The geometric beauty
of the design melted a bit of the tension in his shoulders. Still, he doubted
the propriety of allowing his sister to attend a ball when she’d not yet
formally come out. And, most importantly, he feared Pippa was unprepared for
the sort of attention she would encounter in London.
Pippa
unprepared? She’d fence him into a corner for even entertaining the notion.
“Very
well. We’ll both attend, but I make no promises regarding Lady Katherine.”
He’d
accept the invitation in order to give Pippa her first glimpse of a proper
London ball, meet this marquess’s daughter, and do what he could to assist
Ollie’s cause. But marrying Lady Katherine was another matter entirely. He’d
only ever intended to marry one woman and that had gone so spectacularly
pear-shaped, he wasn’t certain he could bring himself to propose ever again.
About
the Author:
Fueled by Pacific
Northwest coffee and inspired by multiple viewings of every British costume
drama she can get her hands on, Christy Carlyle writes sensual historical
romance set in the Victorian era. She loves heroes who struggle against all
odds and heroines who are ahead of their time. A former teacher with a degree
in history, she finds there’s nothing better than being able to combine her
love of the past with a die-hard belief in happy endings.
Website: http://www.christycarlyle.com/
Tour
giveaway
3
ebook copies of Book 1, One Scandalous Kiss
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