Katie MacAlister - Noble Intentions

It was Charlotte’s turn to snort. “Weston is surely a man who appreciates a mind in a woman, no matter what she reads. I can’t see him with a simpering idiot like Diana Templeton, can you?”

“She does have a large dowry. And a large…er…bosom. Men like that too.”

“She’s also the daughter of a marquis, but she has the wits of a common garden toad. No, your brain is sure to appeal to Lord Weston, and your bosom is just as large as hers, so you’ve met both of those requirements.” Charlotte tipped her head as she considered her cousin. “I hope you’re not afraid to speak your mind in front of him.”

Gillian smiled. “Have you ever known me to be able to hold my tongue?”

Charlotte continued to look thoughtful. “No, but I don’t anticipate that that should be too much of a problem. I fancy Weston enjoys honesty.”

“So I have all the necessary ingredients to make me the perfect wife to the Black Earl?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Charlotte replied cheerfully and checked her own figure in a long oval mirror.

“Except one.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s not in love with me.”

Charlotte turned and looked at her cousin with a gentle, pitying smile. “What has love got to do with the earl asking you to wed him?”

“Charlotte! I couldn’t possibly marry a man who didn’t love me.” Charlotte gave her a weary look that spoke of wisdom beyond her eighteen years. Gillian looked at her hands twisting the gold gauze of her overskirt. “I suppose a love match is out of the question — no one marries for love any more.”

“Only romantics and women of a low station,” Charlotte agreed.

Gillian released the handful of gauze and smoothed her palm over it. Meeting her cousin’s eyes in the mirror, she smiled. “As if it matters — we’re talking foolishness, my dearest Charlotte. The earl has much plumper pigeons to pluck than me.”

Charlotte gave her gown a final tweak and spun around.

“We’ll see what happens tomorrow. If he calls for you again, we’ll know he’s serious. Mama wouldn’t allow him to dally with you if his intentions weren’t honorable. Heavens, there goes the second gong. Papa will be furious if we hold up dinner!”

The two women hurried down the hallway.

“What will you wear tomorrow?” Charlotte asked, pausing to pirouette before a mirror at the top of the stairs.

“What does it matter?”

Charlotte made an annoyed sound and started down the stairs. “What you wear matters greatly! You don’t want to appear before the earl in another of your work gowns,” she tossed over her shoulder. “You should strive for a look of sophistication and elegance, as I do.”

“A gown isn’t going to make me sophisticated and elegant.” Gillian laughed. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, made a face, then turned and sprinted down the stairs. “I have red hair, green eyes, and freckles, Charlotte, and I’m not in the least sophisticated or elegant. You can put your faith in the fact that no matter how well suited you might believe us to be, the earl will not pay his addresses to me.”

Charlotte gave her cousin a mysterious smile as she swept into the dining room.

Unaware that he was the object of discussion, Noble Britton, the most infamous of all the Black Earls, sat in the smoke-filled card room of White’s and proceeded to win most of the family fortune of Manfred, Lord Briceland. Despite his reputation as a merciless, cold predator, Noble did not enjoy destroying men, even foolish young men like Lord Briceland.

“My vowels, Lord Weston.” The young man’s hand trembled as he scrawled his signature.

“You will, of course, be by in the morning to redeem them?” Weston drawled as his long fingers stroked the tablecloth. The earl had every intention of refusing to accept the viscount’s money, but he wanted him to spend a sleepless night considering the implications of his foolish behavior first.

Pale and looking distinctly ill, Lord Briceland nodded and staggered out of the room, calling hoarsely for a whiskey.

“Well done, Noble; you haven’t lost your touch. I do hope the young man is duly appreciative of the fact you saved his fortune from the likes of Mansfield and the other vultures who have been circling him all evening.”

“Thank you, Harry.” Weston acknowledged his friend’s compliment and waved him and Sir Hugh into nearby chairs. “Brandy, gentlemen? Dingle! Three brandies.”

The Marquis Rosse adjusted his spectacles and took the offered balloon of brandy. Like Weston, he was in his evening blacks, creating a somber counterpoint to Sir Hugh’s emerald waistcoat and indigo coat and breeches. Weston thought the younger man looked like a peacock as he sat casting nervous glances around the room to see who was present, fiddling with several watch fobs, his quizzing glass, and two large emeralds on his pudgy fingers. He had reason to know those emeralds were paste and not the real thing.

“Where have you been?” Rosse leaned back and questioned the earl. “I thought you were taking Mariah to that play at the Lyceum. It’s all she and Alice talked about today.”

Weston rubbed a finger across his lips, enjoying the burn of brandy down his throat before it formed a warm pool in his stomach. His eyes narrowed as an acquaintance began to move toward the threesome, then, catching sight of the earl, turned on his heel and left the room. Another cut. They were getting bolder about it, too. “Does it occur to you that our mistresses are entirely too forthcoming with one another about our private plans?”

Sir Hugh snorted as Rosse grinned. “They are twins, Noble. And they do like to talk. I suppose it’s only natural that they share us, so to speak.”

“I suppose so, although it matters not. I will be giving Mariah her congé tomorrow.” Weston pulled a silver case from his coat and offered a cheroot to his friends. A servant dashed forward to light the men’s cigars.

“Tired of her already?” Sir Hugh asked, surprised. Although Weston did not often employ a mistress for any length of time, he had set up Mariah only two weeks past.

“Tired of her incessant chatter, yes, but that’s not the reason I am dispensing with her services. I will be marrying in three days, and much as it would shock the ton if they knew, I intend on honoring my marriage vows.”

Rosse and Sir Hugh both choked on their brandy. Five minutes later, when Rosse was once again able to breathe without gasping, he replaced his spectacles and stared at his friend.

“Who’s the lucky chit?”

“Gillian Leigh.”

“Leigh? The Amazon?” Sir Hugh squeaked, almost dropping his brandy. “Good Lord, Weston, have you lost your mind? She’s nobody! You can’t marry her, even with her connection to Collins.”

In his distress, Sir Hugh did not notice the menace in the earl’s sudden stillness, but the marquis did.

“Tolly…” he began warningly.

Weston raised his hand. “No, let him continue, Harry. I would hear what words of wisdom our young friend has to impart to me.”

Sir Hugh sputtered under the gaze of the mocking gray eyes. “ ’Pon my word, Weston, you’re jesting with me! You can’t be serious — a man of your consequence can’t marry some penniless chit from the colonies, no matter how badly he wants to bed her. Offer her your house in Kensington if you’re finished with your bit of muslin, but for God’s sake, man, don’t waste your name on an undesirable!”

Weston’s eyes never left those of the gently perspiring baronet before him. No expression flickered across his impassive face, but Rosse noticed that the long fingers clasped about the stem of the glass he held were white with tension. “Have a care, Tolly, you speak of my future bride,” Weston replied in a soft, dangerous voice.