Captivated By a Lady's Charm (Lords of Honor #2)(8)

Christian dragged his reluctant stare back to the page. A knot sat hard in his belly as he re-read the contents of Redding’s notes.

Wed an heiress with a fortune not worth less than 50,000 lbs.

Bloody hell, so this is what it would come to?

“I advise you to throw a ball with the ladies who fit your qualifications.”

“My qualifications?” A humorless laugh escaped him.

“In your marchioness,” Redding said slowly as though speaking to a lackwit.

If he weren’t already going to hell for the crimes upon the battlefields of Toulouse, this final act jested about earlier by Maxwell, and now encouraged by Redding, as the only solution was certainly the death knell to whatever pure piece remained of his tarnished soul for even considering it.

Redding’s leather seat creaked and Christian looked up from the note to find the man studying him with his patent impatience. “That is the surest, quickest way to replenish the coffers, paying off the mountain of debt upon the property, my lord.” As casual as he was in his words, the matter-of-fact solicitor might as well have been making a case for tea over coffee.

Christian winged an eyebrow up. “And should the ball prove nothing more than an exorbitant expense with no future Marchioness of St. Cyr to show for those efforts?” The practical solicitor was placing a good deal of hope upon one lavish event.

Redding frowned. “I suggest you be sure that ball is not a wasted expense then, my lord.”

He’d not hang his future on this man’s cryptic warnings. “But if it does and I do not wed an heiress within three months,” he pressed.

“Within three months you will be unable to employ any staff in any of your households. You will be required to sell off your,” he curled his lip, “ventures in steam. Is that clear enough for you, my lord?” He added that last part almost as though an afterthought.

“Quite,” he bit out. It was hard to say just then whom he despised more; his father for his miserable handling of their family’s finances, the marquess who’d died and left him this quagmire, or himself for being unable to muddle his way out of it. Christian shoved back his chair and the legs scraped along the hardwood floor. “I will see myself out,” he said when Redding made to rise. He despised Redding on most days, but in this instance he hated him for being accurate in this blasted matter.

Despite his palpable dislike for Christian, the man was a stickler for propriety. He came to his feet. “As you will, my lord,” Redding said inclining his head.

With a curt bow, Christian stuffed the pages into the pocket sewn inside his cloak and took his leave of his solicitor’s office. As he closed the door behind him and made the return trek down the narrow, darkened hall, his insides twisted.

A wife.

Nay, a wife with a fortune worth. He pulled out the sheets and skimmed the damning notes made by Redding. 50,000 pounds, to be precise. Christian slowed his steps. The black ink glared mockingly back at him. He’d not allowed himself to consider marriage since he’d returned from war. Rather, he’d been content to lose himself in the arms of mindless widows and courtesans who didn’t care who he was truly on the inside.

He stared unblinkingly down at the page. His solicitor indicated the only solution to save his staff, sister, and mother from ruin was marriage. But he’d not sell the last piece of his soul by wedding one of those optimistic debutantes with dreams in their hearts. He had nothing to give those creatures in the way of his heart. A memory flared of the golden-haired beauty in the street. He gave his head a shake. No, one such as her would never do. Christian had already learned the perils presented by those young ladies with starry-eyed gazes. He would do as Redding said and wed, but it would not be to one of those na?ve innocents but rather one of those cold, avaricious ladies who wanted nothing more than his title.





Chapter 3


Lesson Three

Boldly stare down those who gossip about you…

2 months later

London, England

Standing amidst the Marquess and Marchioness of Drake’s ballroom, Prudence conceded that she’d been very, very wrong in her momentary flight of fancy nearly two months ago. Before Christmas. In the snow. There was really nothing to look forward to where a London Season was concerned.

A sniggering from down the row of wallflowers that she kept company with caught her notice. She cast a glance at her sisters in solitariness. The two young women immediately jerked their attention in the opposite direction. A sigh escaped her and she battled back the loneliness that came from these events, wishing for Penelope or Poppy, or Patrina, or even Prinny, if he’d so much as talk to her. Alas, with two sisters too young to make their Come Out and one expecting, Prudence found herself remarkably alone.

Another flurry of giggles.

She pursed her lips. She also found herself gossiped about.

A ruffle hanging over the poof of her white satin sleeve tickled her arm and she scratched at it. Blasted white ruffles. From across Lady Drake’s ballroom, where her mother stood conversing with the host and hostess, she looked up mid-conversation and frowned as though to say “do-not-be-so-much-as-improper-to-that-white-ruffle”.

“No scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages. You are to be everything and all things—”

“Oh, dear, you’ve begun speaking to yourself,” a familiar voice sounded from over her shoulder.