To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1) Read online

  “Pfft. George Edwards gives twice as much as he gets. And if Caroline’s superior intelligence and glorious height are enough to cow the other ladies, well—”

  “This contract,” he interrupted, absolutely unwilling to discuss the other blonde who riled his temper with gay abandon. “Won’t sign and send itself to Lord Hartley.”

  “So don’t sign or send it then! There’s simply no need to rush into anything, darling. You’re young and perfectly healthy…”

  Abruptly she stilled, terror widening the dark brown eyes identical to his. “You…you are quite well?”

  “Fighting fit,” Stephen hastily reassured her. Health was no joking matter in this household.

  “Then never say the angelic Miss Hartley’s halo is tarnished! For heaven’s sake, our family tree boasts far too many, ah, premature babies already.”

  He snorted and ran an impatient hand through his closely cropped hair. “No. Unlike certain relatives I could mention, present company included, some of us can actually keep our heads until the wedding.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” his mother shot back. “One of those marriages. I might have envisioned your brother, God rest him, or one of his ghastly friends embracing a dutiful rather than passionate match, but you? Not in a thousand years.”

  As usual, the mention of Gregory sent a hot burst of gut-wrenching pain scorching through his body. She knew, damn it. She knew exactly how much he’d looked up to him, yet she kept pointing out flaws her eldest son hadn’t even had. Everyone knew Gregory had been the very best of men: staid, upright, respectable and respected.

  Characteristics he wanted now to possess or he would die trying.

  Slowly he unfolded his massive frame and got to his feet. As per usual, his petite mother didn’t so much as lean back. Merely squared her shoulders; lifted her chin and returned the glare in full measure.

  Stephen’s scowl deepened. “The subject is forever closed, Mother. I’ll see you in three days’ time.”

  “But, sweetheart—”

  “Three days’ time.”

  “Oh, very well. Do remember to smile, or you’ll frighten the other guests. And travel safely,” Jane replied airily as she stood and shook non-existent wrinkles from her pale blue skirts. Then with an impudent curtsy, she swept from the room.

  Cursing in several languages, Stephen sank back into the chair and wished a pox on all females who laughed in the face of graceful retreats and virtues like silence or minding their own business. It was no bloody wonder his mother and Caroline Edwards got on so well, they were two peas from the same cursed pod.

  Thank heavens for women like Flora Hartley. Not only was she stunningly beautiful with her ebony hair, sapphire-blue eyes and slender curves, she was sweet, demure and utterly biddable. The future Countess of Westleigh would do her duty and ensure—with a smile and without the battle—a peaceful, well-run household. No scandals, tears, or broken hearts in their future.

  Taking a deep breath, he dipped his pen in the engraved silver inkpot and scrawled his signature on the crisp pieces of parchment in front of him. A few short weeks and life would be running exactly to plan.

  Finally.

  ***

  The Bruce Estate, Kent

  In less than a minute, they would arrive at country house party hell.

  Staring out the window of her stepfather’s worst carriage, Miss Caroline Edwards took in the surroundings and shuddered. Spindly, leafless trees crouched on either side of the unkempt gravel driveway like a witch over a cauldron. The large, cream stone manor buildings were in desperate need of several scrubbings. But most alarming, eight Bruce women were lined up by age outside their front door, all wearing shades of purple.

  Discreetly flexing her aching backside currently being tortured by a too-thin leather squab, she sat back and pulled her thick blue woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. Sweet heavens, the house in question reminded her of…

  “Something out of one of those novels Mama sneaks into the house under her sewing. You know the ones. Written by that frightfully interesting Radcliffe woman.”

  Blinking, she glanced across the too-small length of the carriage to where her cretin of a twin brother had practically folded himself in half trying to find a comfortable spot. Trust George to verbalize the thought before it had even finished swirling in her head. He’d done it since they were small, saying it stemmed from being born an entire three minutes before her and receiving the lion’s share of wit, charm and looks.

  Obviously said lion had bounded straight past modesty and humility in those three tiny minutes, but the bit about looks was accurate enough, damn his hide. Somehow the combination of golden hair and jade-green eyes they had inherited from their long-dead father looked infinitely better on him. As did their ridiculous height. Women swooned and sighed over George’s broad-shouldered, long-legged six and a half foot frame. Men stared at her, a mere five inches shorter, and squeaked ‘my dear, aren’t you…statuesque’ and ‘such a tall filly’ while she concentrated fiercely on not sneezing when heavily oiled or unwashed hair tickled her nose.

  Peering out the window again, Caroline smiled grimly. “I’m not sure even Mrs. Radcliffe could envisage a horror such as this, especially with the berry display on the front steps. Remind me again why I’ve been dragged along to this…this debacle?”

  George snorted. “Because our stepfather, in his delightfully avuncular manner, insisted you come along and shamelessly parade yourself in front of some more marriage prospects before the Season starts. Considering you are cemented to the shelf, Sir Malcolm’s plan seems rather futile, so I wish he’d take the hint and leave you alone—”

  “Stop! Please don’t say something nice. That can only mean the end of the world is nigh, and I still have so much to see and do.”

  “…and leave you alone because you’ve already turned down all the decent, half-decent and barely acceptable men in London. And all of England for that matter. It’s a definite scraping of the barrel now, unless you look to foreign shores.”

  “Excuse me?” she spluttered, not for the first time wishing her reticule contained itching powder. Or a slingshot.

  “You heard me. Sir Malcolm should just accept you’ll soon be a twenty-five year old spinster who wears blue feathered turbans, sleeps with seventeen cats and smells like an unaired cellar…Ouch. Damn it, Caro, we’ve talked about your wayward heels!”

  “Wayward? Au contraire, mon frère. My heels have the instincts of a bloodhound and always know exactly where they are heading.”

  “Indeed. And out in the open, I’d rate my chances at avoidance. But in such a confined space…” George broke off, casting a disgusted look around him. “Jesus, the pinchpenny bastard could have at least loaned us a decent carriage. Not our fault he is an angry dwarf.”

  Caroline’s fingers twisted together. Angry didn’t begin to describe their stepfather’s temper most days, and it had been growing more and more volatile lately. She’d made the mistake once of asking what was wrong, and had now lost count how many times she’d been forced to wear gloves or high-necked gowns to hide the blue-black evidence of his unrelenting wrath.

  But not even her twin knew about those particular humiliations.

  “Ha,” she mocked. “You speak to me about scraping the barrel, why couldn’t you have had that discussion with Mama before she up and married the filthy weasel who must be obeyed?”

  “It’s a hard conversation to facilitate when one is four.”

  “Excuses, excuses.”

  “Oh, shut up and put on your civilized, well-bred lady mask. I know it’s dusty from disuse, but if you can keep it on and control your sneezes, perhaps we’ll be welcome the entire three days of a house party for once.”

  Rolling her eyes, Caroline braced herself for the head jolt as the carriage came to a shuddering halt in front of the wide steps. Ouch.
>
  “That’s funny. I always thought we fled to avoid the wailing stampedes of devastated women you shamelessly bedded, then abandoned.”

  George made a growling sound. “Easy to throw that around. Some would accuse a brick wall if they thought it would elevate their standing in the ton’s eyes.”

  She shrugged and climbed out of the carriage. Her twin did have a point, there were ladies who would do or say anything for attention, but on the other hand if she had a guinea for every time some tearful wife or widow dragged her behind a potted plant to plead for assistance in regaining George’s fickle affection, she’d be richer than the king himself.

  “Lady Bruce,” she said, inclining her head to their hostess.

  “Ah, Miss Edwards,” said the woman with a rather terrifying smile. “Welcome. I’m sure you require a short rest and freshen-up after your journey; we’ve put you in the blue room on the second floor. Dinner will be at six o’clock sharp, followed by cards, poetry readings, and music in the salon, then dancing in the ballroom.”

  “That sounds wonderful. We’re so pleased to be here,” Caroline said politely, trying not to laugh. It couldn’t be easy having seven aging girls to marry off.

  Ignoring George’s wide-eyed pleading glance when their hostess began ruthlessly herding him toward her purple-shaded offspring, Caroline grinned and waggled her fingers in farewell. Some unhinged mama and darling daughter time was the least he deserved. Cemented to the shelf, indeed.

  Several hours later, with a tough beef, undercooked vegetable and runny syllabub dinner sitting uncomfortably in her stomach, Caroline nursed a glass of surprisingly good wine on the edge of the Bruce’s large and colorfully decorated ballroom. Despite a roaring fire, the place was rather damp and draughty and it looked like the hosts had invited everyone they knew to try and fill it.

  Yet her usual favorite activity of people watching, guessing the matches, friends, rivals, sinners and secret lovers, held little appeal tonight. Not when he was here, the man at the center of every daydream and night-time fantasy she’d ever had.

  Stephen Forsyth.

  It wasn’t just because she actually had to look up to speak to him. Or that his massive shoulders and powerfully muscled arms spun her around a ballroom, as though she were half her height and weight. Not even that he had possibly the most brilliant mind in England, one which allowed him to solve in seconds the kind of complex problems other people struggled with for days.

  It was more…Stephen just radiated strength and stability, and possessed a pleasing earthiness with his thick brown hair and equally dark eyes. And no matter where he was or what he’d been doing, he smelled like fresh herbs and leather, a scent so damn heady she had to suppress a constant urge to swipe her tongue along his stubble-roughened, square jaw for a taste. He was the quintessential warrior of old with a total disdain of garish colors, frills and flounces, one could easily imagine him storming a castle and freeing its prisoners. Or picture him defending a village with nothing but a bloody sword in his hand. A man who would protect his home and family and be staunchly loyal to the woman lucky enough to win his heart…

  Caroline sighed heavily. How cruel the fates had declared him the one man utterly and permanently beyond her reach.

  “Pardon me, miss, but you look like an adventurous type. Care to run away with me?” drawled a wonderfully familiar voice, and with a muffled shriek she spun around and enveloped the perfectly petite Miss Louisa Donovan in a tight hug.

  “Lulu! You never told me you were coming here!”

  “I didn’t want to; you know how I feel about house parties. Mother insisted. But now I’ve found you, if you’ll stand just so you can hide me from my chaperone and all the starving hounds present.”

  “An exercise in futility, darling. The hounds can scent England’s richest heiress from a hundred miles away, and as for your chaperone, I bet she could find you on a dark night with her eyes shut.”

  “Bah,” grumbled Louisa, adjusting the sleeve of her elegant green-striped gown. “I envy you your freedom.”

  “Tis true, twenty-four years old, built like a carriage, and penniless has its merits. But I’m hardly free. Chaperones are entirely superfluous, when my brother or one of his overbearing circle are continually hovering.”

  “Indeed. Everyone knows you’re under the protection of the London Lords. The Duke of Southby, Marquess of Standish, Marquess of Ardmore, Colonel Lord Langley and…my goodness, I can never remember the last name. Remind me?”

  Caroline scowled down into her friend’s innocently-widened silver eyes, unbearably tempted to strangle the insolent minx with her own fiery red hair.

  “Westleigh.”

  “Pardon me? It is a complete crush in here.”

  “Westleigh.”

  “Sorry, still didn’t quite hear you.”

  “The Earl of Westleigh,” she barked.

  “Hmmm. Still in love with him then. You are nothing if not dogged, dearest.”

  “Excuse me? I most certainly am not in love with him.”

  Louisa tilted her head, her expression far too sympathetic.

  “Oh please. You’ve been mad about Stephen Forsyth for as long as I’ve known you. And don’t insult me by remembering exactly how long that is; in my mind I am still as fresh as a summer rosebud.”

  “Forget your fading petals, Lulu, far more worrying is the severe mental imbalance. I mean really, stating I have feelings for England’s worst cretin? I’ll admit his lordship doesn’t hurt the eyes to look at, but he is my brother’s best friend and comrade in crime, nothing more.”

  “Right,” said Louisa with a disdainful sniff. “And I’m the future Queen of Spain.”

  “I do declare. How low should I curtsy, your highness?”

  “Low enough so I can dump this wine on your head.”

  “Criminal wastage,” Caroline said, grinning. “Tonight’s vintage is actually quite excellent—”

  “Don’t you dare change the subject. Westleigh cannot be England’s worst cretin; we’ve already agreed George permanently holds the title. And as for fiddle faddling around and calling your desperate pining for the Earl ‘feelings’, I’m appalled. You’re just plain in love. The forever kind, that makes your stomach ache, head spin and toes curl.”

  Her heart clenched at the sting of undeniable facts. Thankfully her ungovernable tongue yet again came to the rescue. “That description sounds more like the pressing need for a good purge.”

  “Ha. You’ve never thought it might be more productive to tell him the truth and see what happened, rather than supposedly protecting yourself through constant baiting, sniping and generally pushing him away?”

  Caroline gave her friend a disgusted look. “You cannot be serious. He would die laughing, and then that weedy cousin with the bad breath would inherit everything. I simply couldn’t do that to the divine Lady W.”

  “Hmmm. Well I hate to break it to you, but unless you rescue him, your sweetheart might perish shortly anyway. Look.”

  Following Louisa’s gaze to the other side of the room, Caroline’s eyes widened.

  Oh Lord.

  Obviously emboldened by the staggering quantities of wine they’d consumed with their dinner, the seven Bruce sisters had formed a pack and were advancing toward her brother and Lord Westleigh like a troupe of Bow Street Runners on a cornered criminal. Neither male would make it out alive.

  Cursing under her breath, Caroline smoothed the front of her ruby-red gown and quickly patted her chignon to ensure it was still relatively secure. “They should give out sainthoods for this sort of thing. By the way, you’re coming with me.”

  “To help George? You’ll owe me a dozen favors.”

  “I know. When’s your next batch of duty visits? I’ll go with you.”

  “All of them?” Louisa inquired, her smile turning distinctly cunning. “Aunt E
dith too?”

  “That old bat can’t be still alive. She must be a hundred and twenty at least.”

  “Alive and kicking. Literally.”

  Caroline shuddered. “I suppose, yes, Aunt Edith too.”

  “Then Miss Edwards, we have ourselves a deal. Let the cretin-saving mission commence!”

  Sighing, knowing this would probably be one of the most foolish things she would ever do, she squared her shoulders, linked arms with Louisa and marched onto the battlefield.

  ***

  He’d only been on Bruce land a few hours, but already Stephen regretted his decision to attend the house party. To some extent because most of the men were positively obsessed with hunting, something he’d never enjoyed but had avoided completely since Gregory’s death. But mainly because he’d never before experienced the sheer intensity of seven unmarried sisters who were set on pursuing him.

  As a mere mister, the looks from behind fluttering fans and over creamy shoulders had been playful. Lustful. A constant stream of unspoken invitations to bed, with no greater expectation than hours of wicked pleasure. But the minute he inherited, gazes became narrowed and purposeful, previously robust constitutions were overwhelmed by mild heat, horses pulled up lame in remarkably secluded spots, and eagle-eyed chaperones mysteriously vanished.

  Yet all that nonsense paled in comparison to the relentless attention of the Bruce family. Since arriving, there had been one permanently attached to each arm for introductions. Three kept his glass filled; two fought over which pianoforte piece to play, and all loudly applauded his skill at the borrowed billiards table while seeking his opinion on every topic imaginable between shots.

  The last part was the worst. Not the conversation, but the way they all hushed each other, and pinned him with their unblinking gazes and wide smiles while waiting for a reply. Not even at Almack’s had he ever felt quite so stalked, so hastily excusing himself after dinner to mingle with other guests had been a relief. The sooner he could return to London, see the countersigned marriage contract and formally announce his and Flora’s engagement, the better.