Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Lord Michael Lyndon blinked his eyes in surprise. "You wish me to marry whom?"
"I believe you heard me," the Earl of Grantham replied. "Miss Chloe Russell."
"Good God, sir, you couldn't have picked anyone more ineligible!"
The earl looked at his son from under bushy eyebrows. "To the contrary. Not only does she have a handsome dowry, but she has a competence from her grandmother, as well."
Michael rose and paced to the fireplace, drumming his fingers on the mantel. "She is the worst possible match for me."
The earl waved that off. "You don't have to live in her pocket, boy. Just get heirs on her."
"While leg-shackled to the clumsiest girl in the ton."
"She won't interfere with your athletic pursuits. Though why you needs must wear that hideous spotted neckcloth when you go driving is beyond all understanding."
Since Michael had no intention of explaining, again, the rules of the Four in Hand Club to his father, he merely frowned. "But why her, Father? Surely there must be someone else more suitable. If I must marry, that is."
"High time you set up your nursery," the earl said gruffly. "High time you gave me heirs."
Michael's lips tightened. He had a brief, nightmarish vision of his future offspring, sons who were enthusiastic about athletics, but were hopelessly inept at all games. "That is not what I meant, Father, and well you know it."
The earl shrugged his elegantly clad shoulders. "Her father and I had an agreement-"
"The devil you did!"
"-That my oldest son would marry her, should she reach the age of one and twenty without a husband. That is you."
Michael stared fixedly at his fingers, still tapping on the mantel. "That grandfather would so drain the estate-"
"Precisely." The earl nodded once. "You know, boy, that I have labored mightily to bring it back to its former state." His lips pursed in distaste. "I am, however, no farmer."
"Then let me at least have Chimneys," Michael urged. "You know it should be mine."
"You're no farmer, either. No, boy, the only thing that will help us is an infusion of money," the earl went on. "Which is why I have chosen Miss Russell for you."
"Father, surely if I looked for myself-"
"In the Marriage Mart? When, boy? And how much success do you believe you'll have?"
"As to that, I believe I am not totally repellent," Michael said dryly. "Nor is my title."
"Pray attend to me, boy. There isn't any money to match the title. I'll grant you it is old and respected, but the money is more important. No father will allow his daughter to marry a penniless man, no matter his title."
"Then I may as well choose a Cit."
"Do not be impertinent. Miss Russell's family is well established, but she has not a title. Her brother wishes one for her. You will provide it. She will provide the money. She is worth, I believe, some five thousand a year."
"Really." Michael regarded his father straightly. "I'm surprised such a paragon has not been snapped up before this."
"You know why. Because of her ridiculous nickname."
"Miss Bumblebroth."
"Precisely."
"A well-earned name, Father."
The earl waved that off. "A few trifling incidents."
"Tripping over her train and then falling nearly into the Queen's lap while being presented at Court? Spilling lemonade all over herself and, I might add, Lady Cowper at Almack's? Casting up her accounts at a ton ball? A well-earned name."
"A cruel one," the earl said quietly, making Michael look at him in some surprise. Rarely could he credit his rational, urbane father with any sensitivity. "It is no wonder the girl has gone into seclusion." Michael frowned again and paced to the drawing room window, overlooking Grosvenor Square. He wasn't in the petticoat line; he was not one to do the pretty. Instead, he was known as a noted Corinthian, a label he rarely applied to himself. Still, he had always been interested in sports, and he'd immersed himself in the pursuits at which he excelled since he was a mere stripling. He was a bruising rider, a member of the Quorn, an expert boxer who often sparred with Gentleman Jackson; he was deadly with pistols and sword alike. Yet he was expected to marry the least graceful girl to be presented in living memory. That was a facer, he thought. He'd known he'd have to marry someday; that had been borne into him after his brother's death. Lately, if truth were told, he'd felt that day coming closer. To be presented with it like this, though, was stunning. To be asked to marry such an unlikely girl was outside of enough.
"Father." He turned back from the window. "I believe I am capable of choosing my own bride."
"Oh, I quite agree." The earl looked at him from over steepled fingers. "Arranged marriages are archaic. But who will wed her, else?
"Apparently only a penniless viscount, heir to a penniless earl."
"Precisely." The earl nodded, completely missing the rare edge to Michael's voice. "As I said. It is an advantageous match for all concerned."
Michael stared balefully at his father. "What you are saying, then, is that it's all arranged."
"Oh, no. You still must propose to the girl."
"Ah. Is that all."
"Of course you'll speak with her first," the earl went on. "If you feel you won't suit, you needn't go through with it."
"Oh, indeed," Michael said. Needn't go through with it? Hardly, he thought, unconsciously mimicking his father. "And if I say I will not do it?"
The earl sighed. "Why must you always be this way, boy? You know I want only what's best for you."
"Unfortunately, we don't always agree on what that is."
"I am older and more experienced than you-"
"And I know myself," Michael snapped.
"Damme, boy, must we always come to blows on everything?"
Michael was quiet for a long moment. "I know you wish the best for me," he said finally. "But I cannot be what you want. I am not like you."
"I have done rather well with my life," he said dryly.
"Against your own father's tendencies."
"There is that." The earl looked down at his fingers. "If you were more like James..."
"Yes? I would do what?" Michael asked in a bored voice that masked his surprise. James was rarely mentioned in this house. "I'd not question you?"
"You'd listen to me."
The room was silent for a moment. Then Michael looked over at him. "I am not like him, either," he said softly.
"I'm sorry, boy. I shouldn't have said that."
Michael waved that away. "You are set on this?"
"I think it best. As I have spoken to Miss Russell's brother about you-"
"The devil you have!"
"-I believe you have no choice but to see the chit."
"Very well," Michael said after a moment. "But I will decide whether to ask her or not." He held the earl's gaze with his own. "Are we agreed?"
The earl sighed, and then nodded. "Yes, boy. We are agreed."
"Who is it you wish me to marry?" Chloe Russell demanded, looking up from her easel and sweeping back a strand of hair that had escaped from her untidy bun. Inadvertently, she left a streak of carmine red paint across her cheek, to harmonize with the daub of cobalt on her nose and the ochre on her forehead.
"You heard me, Chloe." Stephen, far more neatly attired than his sister ever was, rose up on the balls of his feet and then rocked back down, his hands tightly clasped behind his back. "Lord Michael Lyndon. And you have paint on your face again."
"Yes, yes." She brushed impatiently at her chin. "Have your wits gone begging, Stephen?"
"I believe 'twill be a good match," he said stiffly.
Chloe stared at him for a moment, and then began to laugh. "Oh, Stephen! Surely not even you could be so foolish as to believe that. Why, the man's a veritable Corinthian!"
"So he is. I hope you don't intend to meet him looking like that."
That made her head snap up, all laughter gone. "He's not here, is he?"
"No. But if you would but look at yourself, even you must agree that you look less than your best."
"I never look my best," she said, picking her way through the cluttered studio to the small mirror she kept on the wall, to check for such minor details as a brush used to hold her bun in place, or a smock she'd forgotten to remove. "Oh, my." She touched the tip of her nose and grinned. "Really, it's not so bad, Stephen. There are only three pigments today, and at least I kept close to the primary colors."
"Pray be serious for once in your life, Chloe. Levity is ever your besetting sin."
"Levity is what has often saved me," she shot back.
"I doubt it will appeal to Lord Lyndon. We wouldn't want him to take a disgust of you."
"Oh, no, that would be terribly disastrous."
"So it would," he agreed in all seriousness. "His father and I have agreed-"
"His father?" She twisted to look at him, all laughter gone. "Stephen, not even you could be so stodgy as to arrange such a thing!"
"Actually, Father did. I am merely carrying out his wishes." He rose up on his feet again. "Someone has to look out for your future. Helena believes the match is suitable."
"She would," Chloe muttered.
"She cares only about your well being, Chloe, as do I. She would see you comfortably settled."
"She would see me making the social rounds again," she shot back.
"And would that be so very bad?"
She stared at him. "Stephen, even you can't be so insensitive."
"I wish only the best for your future."
"So do I." She crossed the room to him. "If you would but let me set up my own establishment-"
"Out of the question, Chloe, and well you know it," he said sharply.
"Of course. We both know I'm far more valuable to you here than I'd be on my own."
"Dash it, you're my sister! You talk as if I use you."
"You would if you could." She paused. "Or my money."
"That is a nasty thing to say, Chloe," he shot back.
"But true. How wonderful for you that the marriage settlements are likely to be generous."
He looked uncomfortable. "Well, true, there are debts. Helena's clothes alone cost a fortune-"
"Stephen, how could you do this to me?"
"You talk as if I am a monster, when all I've done is arrange a good marriage for you."
"Bosh. No one wished to marry me before. Why now? Oh, don't bother answering," she said bitterly. "We both know the Lyndons are pockets to let."
"A young lady should not concern herself with such matters."
"But this lady does, and well I should, when it concerns my future. Why, if Lord Lyndon had not his own income from his estate he wouldn't be able to live as he does." She frowned as a thought struck her. "How does he feel about this?"
For the first time, he looked away. "I believe him to be agreeable."
"You believe," she said. "Then you don't actually know?"
"No"
"Oh, good lord! Stephen, we live in modern times now. People choose who they wish to marry."
"Not always. Father chose Helena for me, and look how that has turned out."
Helena, their second cousin, was a pretty, but brainless goose whose penniless state had made it unlikely she would marry elsewhere. She and Stephen had known each other forever, yet that mattered not. The marriage was not a happy one.
Chloe shuddered. "Yes, just look at it."
"There is no need for you to use that tone of voice," Stephen snapped, finally goaded by her intransigence. "You will meet with him, if nothing else."
"Very well," she said with deceptive docility. "And just when is this meeting to occur?"
"Helena has invited him to take tea with us tomorrow."
"He must be overjoyed."
"He certainly must be anticipating it," he said, making Chloe wish, once again, to bash him over the head for his lack of understanding. "I will, of course, depend upon you to be there. And not," he frowned, taking in her appearance yet again, "looking like that."
"I shall be in good looks," she said, knowing that that would be inadequate at best.
"Very good." He bowed and turned to the door. "Remember, Chloe. We depend upon you for this."
"Yes, Stephen," she said tonelessly and, as the door closed behind him, whirled and flung her paint brushed against the wall. It fell to the floor, leaving a streak of carmine that joined a rainbow of other streaks left from her occasional fits of temper at a painting that wasn't going well. She stared at it balefully and then turned away, taking a deep, calming breath. Temper would not help. The only thing she could do was to think this thing through rationally.
Pacing across the floor, she slumped into a chair and pulled out the brush that held her hair in place. It tumbled upon her shoulders, unruly, tangled, and an undistinguished shade of brown. Oh, she was no beauty. She knew that. She was also clumsy, as all the world knew. Miss Bumblebroth, she thought with the dispassion she had trained herself to use. Why in the world would someone like Lord Michael Lyndon wish to marry her?
Chloe reached up to twist a strand of hair, stopping herself just in time; paint there would be extraordinarily difficult to remove. For the money, of course. What other reason could there be? The Lyndons were nearly bankrupt. It would behoove her to find out exactly how serious their financial situation was. They'd welcome the money left her by her grandmother. If they had any idea...
No. She shook her head, and her hair swirled, catching golden highlights she wouldn't have guessed she had. No one knew, and that was the way matters would remain. Never would she give over control of her entire fortune to her husband; never would she allow him such power over it, lest he gamble away all her hard-earned gains. She would have to speak with her man of affairs about establishing another trust. Of course, she didn't have to accept Lord Lyndon's offer, she thought, and then rejected the idea with another shake of her head. Stephen and Helena both would pressure her to accept, Stephen because he truly cared about her future; Helena because she had long wished to be sole mistress in this house, with none of the servants owing their allegiance, and affection, to Chloe. Though why they did was a mystery to her. She was only Miss Bumblebroth.
The thought made her rise. After all this time, the name still hurt, and it was likely she'd hear it were she to go out into the world again. Her past mishaps would always be remembered and held against her, her own particular burden to bear. The only thing she could do, then, was to refuse Lord Lyndon's offer, which would likely be a reluctant one. She doubted he would want to sully his reputation by association with her, no matter her fortune. No matter that she had increased her grandmother's legacy far beyond its original amount, though few knew of that.
The paint-splattered wall loomed up before her, proof of the side of her personality few ever saw. Fits of temper did her no good, she thought, bending to pick up the paintbrush and carefully examining the bristles for damage. Women had little power in this world. No matter that she wished to set up her own home, and had the means to do so. The only way she would ever be allowed to leave this house would be through marriage, or taking some dreary position as governess or teacher. Lord knew that didn't appeal to her. She was far too fond of her comforts and her relative freedom. Marriage, then? Her brow furrowed as she began to unbutton her smock. Mayhap. Mayhap it wasn't so disastrous an idea as she thought.
That gave her pause, as she stopped in front of the mirror to check her appearance. Patience, her maid, so aptly named a person, would likely scold her for the damage she'd done to herself, from the paint on her face, to her hair, hanging loose and lank. How Patience ever suffered her she didn't know, she thought with her first genuine smile. She wondered if Lord Lyndon would do the same.
That thought made her frown, as she turned away from the mirror. It always came back to that, did it not? What Lord Lyndon thought of her had suddenly, and unexpectedly, become important. Well, sir, she thought, putting up her chin as she stalked out of her studio. We'll see. We'll just see.
"I don't understand why you're doing this, miss," Patience said the following day.
"I've a plan, Patience," Chloe said, glancing at her reflection one last time. There, her hair was exactly right, and the dress was perfect. "I simply want to control my life."
Patience had been with Chloe for enough years that she felt free to speak her mind. "You never will if you continue so," she muttered.
Chloe turned. "Oh?"
"Do you think you'll ever be allowed to leave this house?"
"Who will stop me?" Chloe demanded.
"Mr. Russell."
"Not when I decide to go."
"Oh, miss." Patience looked at her sadly. "But will you ever decide to?"
"Of course I will," Chloe said sharply. "I simply will not be forced into marrying someone I don't even know. Would you care for that?"
"If it was a lord wanted to marry me, I might, and him looking as he does."
"That's of little moment. I believe I still have some say in my future." She moved away from the dressing table. "He should be here soon. Wish me luck."
"I wish you well, miss," Patience said.
Chloe frowned at her, but decided to save her energy for Lord Lyndon's visit and his probable offer of marriage. She was rather anticipating it.
"Oh, no," Helena moaned when Chloe walked into the drawing room a few moments later. "Why did you pick that dress, and on today, of all days? And when I specifically told you to wear your pink? You never did have a sense of style, but was this made by the village dressmaker at home? Not that village dressmakers can't be good, I've had some perfectly lovely frocks made in the country, but-"
"Actually, this is a London frock," Chloe said, smiling. She knew that her dress of plain beige book muslin was neither new nor flattering, and that it had never been in the first stare of fashion. That was, of course, the point. So was her hair, which she had deliberately left tousled. Not that that made much difference.
"But not from any modiste I would acknowledge. Chloe, you look a veritable quiz."
"Why, thank you, Helena," Chloe said, settling herself on the couch. "Coming from you, that's high praise."
"Stephen, please talk with your sister."
"Chloe, do you wish to ruin everything?" Stephen asked through clenched teeth.
"Actually, yes."
"Dash it, the man has a title! You'd be a viscountess."
"As if I care for that." She looked at her sister-in-law. "Shall I go change?"
Helena took another look at her and shuddered again. "There's not enough time to repair - that."
"Oh, good," Chloe said brightly, and picked up her embroidery. Lord Lyndon should see her at a ladylike pursuit, particularly when she did so poorly at it.
"I will be very annoyed with you if things do not go well," Stephen said.
"Oh, dear."
"Don't try me, Chloe. Helena."
His wife looked up. "Yes, Stephen?"
"Try to make her understand how important this is, if you will." He glowered at Chloe. "I shall be in the library, awaiting Lord Lyndon," he added, and stalked out.
"I simply do not know why you are so opposed to this match," Helena fretted. "He is quite an eligible parti."
"Yes, Helena." Chloe fixed her attention on her tangled embroidery silks.
"I needn't tell you that this match is quite important," Helena went on.
Chloe looked up. "Why?"
"Need you ask? Chloe, my dear, we wish to see you established in the world."
You wish to be rid of me. "There are, of course, the marriage settlements to think of."
"As if we care about such a thing! I'm sure I don't know why that should matter to you. We are your family."
Chloe's lips tightened. "I apologize, Helena, but I do so dislike the idea of being penniless."
"Really, Chloe, you are the most ungrateful chit! When we have fed you and housed you for all this time."
"'Tis my house, too."
"Oh, my dear, do not believe that we would pressure you into something you do not wish."
"Of course not," Chloe murmured, frowning at a particularly complicated knot.
"We simply wish only for your own good. Your silks are all tangled again," she added.
"Oh, really?"
"Perhaps 'twould be wise for you to put that away. We don't wish Lord Lyndon to believe you to be inept."
"I daresay he already does."
Helena eyed her with suspicion. "Chloe, surely you aren't thinking of refusing him."
Chloe looked up, and their eyes met. "I might."
"You might?" It was very nearly a shriek. "Oh, I fear I am about to swoon. Chloe, my vinaigrette! Please!"
Chloe let out a sigh, but she crossed the room to fetch the vinaigrette. Helena needed recourse to one quite often. Though she could appear entirely weak and helpless, Helena ruled the household with an iron hand. Doubtless it was her idea that Chloe marry, although Stephen probably thought that the inspiration was his.
For now, though, there was nothing for it but to hold the silver-chased object below her sister-in-law's nose. "Here," she said. "Take a deep breath. 'Twill revive you."
Helena did as ordered, eyeing Chloe balefully. "Really, you are the most ungrateful chit," she said again. "When we have worked so hard on your behalf."
"I don't know what I could be thinking of." Chloe returned to her chair as Helena again sat upright.
"Nor do I. He is a fine catch, especially for you."
Chloe's lips twitched. "Yes, Helena," she said, somehow gaining control of herself.
"Mr. Russell and I believe - yes, Horricks, what is it?" she broke off, as the butler came into the room.
"Excuse me, madam," he said, bowing as he proffered a silver tray bearing a calling card. "Lord Lyndon is here."
"Oh, dear," Chloe said before she could stop herself, and Horricks glanced at her, his features softening marginally.
"He appears quite the gentleman, miss," he said daringly. Helena might think she was mistress of the house, but even she knew, deep down, who the servants favored.
"Of course he does. He is a viscount," Helena snapped. "You are getting above yourself, Horricks."
"I am sorry, madam."
"So you should be. Well? Why are you keeping his lordship waiting? Show him up."
"Yes, madam," he said, and, his back stiff, left the room.
"Chloe, do sit up straight," Helena ordered. "And put that horrible embroidery in the workbag. Why you needs must persist in trying embroidery - yes, Horricks?"
"Lord Lyndon, madam," he said tonelessly, again shooting a look at Chloe, this one brimming with conspiratorial amusement.
"Oh! Lord Lyndon, do come in." She held out her hand. "We're honored by your condescension in paying us this call."
Lord Lyndon bowed over Helena's hand, and then looked from one to the other, somehow making Chloe sit as straight as even Helena could wish. Although his face was blankly polite, she suspected that this man was awake on all suits. "Mrs. Russell. Miss Russell."
Helena simpered up at him as he bent over her hand. From beneath lowered eyelids, Chloe studied him as he sat on the sofa across from her. Heavens, he was more handsome than she remembered, and so faultlessly dressed that he made her feel even more untidy than she already did. His bottle green coat was made of the best superfine; his boots of the best leather, and his pantaloons... Chloe suddenly looked away, hoping she wasn't blushing. Lord, but the image of how his pantaloons fit along his muscular thighs stayed with her. Neither could she forget the way they hugged his narrow hips, the hips of a true horseman. Good heavens, Chloe, she thought. You've never had such thoughts before.
"It is my pleasure," Michael said gravely, careful to keep his eyes blank. 'Twas a long time since he'd felt so diverted as he had when Chloe had sized him up so thoroughly. There'd been more feminine interest than he'd expected in her quick glance, but also something else. Speculation, but not what he was used to, for his title or his prospects. No, it was as if she were, for some reason, surprised.
"Would you care for a dish of tea?" Helena went on. "I daresay you would prefer something stronger, but I do so enjoy tea at this time of day. One is amazed to think of it coming from such a heathen country. I prefer orange pekoe myself-"
"Helena," Chloe said, her voice lower and more musical than he'd expected. "The tea?"
"The tea? Oh, yes, of course, you'll think me quite bird-witted, my lord."
Very much to his surprise, Michael met Chloe's eyes and saw them dancing with humor. For the first time, it occurred to him to question the dreadful frock she wore. "Thank you," he said, and settled back to enjoy himself.
"The Season has been fine so far, has it not?"
"Yes." He looked squarely at Chloe. "Are you enjoying it, Miss Russell?"
"I rarely go out in company, sir," Chloe said. "I'd rather paint."
"Paint?" Interesting. She acted as if she were not on the catch for him at all. It was, again, not the behavior of the young misses he was accustomed to.
"Yes, our Chloe is quite the artist," Helena put in.
"Watercolors, I presume," he said, sounding deliberately bored.
Chloe set down her saucer so hard it rattled on the fine inlaid table. "Oils," she said flatly. "Watercolors are missish."
He blinked. "Are they any good?"
"Of course."
"Chloe!" Helena looked at her in dismay. "Do remember yourself."
"I am, Helena." Chloe's face was calm. "I remember that Lord Lyndon has come here to discuss a proposition with me."
"Chloe!" Helena exclaimed again, and Michael laughed into his fist. Lord, but there was far more to the girl than he had known. A proposition, indeed. He might not actually be facing disaster, after all.
"Oh, my lord." Helena looked genuinely distressed. "I must apologize for Chloe."
"There's no use apologizing for me, Helena," Chloe said cheerfully. "I suspect Lord Lyndon prefers plain speaking."
"Quite." He looked directly at Helena. "May I have a few moments alone with your sister-in-law?"
Agonized, Helena looked from one to the other, and then reluctantly nodded. "Oh, certainly, Lord Lyndon. I shall be in the library with Mr. Russell."
"So," Chloe said, before the door had fully closed behind Helena, before he'd had a chance to turn back to her. "Who's forcing you to this?"
