A Pledge of Passion (The Rules of Engagement) (4 page)

Mariah's heart sank. It seemed unlikely they would have another opportunity for private conversation. As an heir to a barony in her own right, she was far above a mere mister, but there was no one else she would rather spend the evening with, no one else whose company she desired as much as Mr. Needham's. They were only just beginning to know one another, and she felt cheated.

She looked from Lady Russell back to Mr. Needham. "So we may not see each other again?" she asked softly.

"I don't know, my lady," he replied. "My obligations allow me little time of my own. And now I must regretfully take my leave." He took her hand, holding her gaze as he brushed her gloved knuckles with his thumb. It was a mildly intimate gesture that sent a dangerous tremor of awareness racing up her arm. He released her hand slowly, as if reluctant to let her go.

Did he also feel the connection? She could have sworn he did, but the bigger question was whether he could ever bring himself to act upon it.

CHAPTER THREE

"Look round the habitable world, how few
know their own good, or, knowing it, pursue!" -
John Dryden

Woburn Abbey, Bedfordshire

THE CLINK OF GLASSES and low rumble of male laughter teased Nick's ears as he stood waiting in the antechamber outside the Duke of Bedford's private study. The footman had announced his arrival, but it was clear the duke would acknowledge him no sooner than His Grace chose to do so.

Nick shifted his stance, refusing to sit and fighting the urge to pace. Such was his lot in life. Neither servant nor peer, he occupied the sliver of no-man's-land just inside the periphery of the privileged circle. He should have accepted it by now, but it still ate at him. Although Marcus had always treated him as an equal, the duke and many others regarded
Mister
Needham as almost beneath their notice. Unfortunately, the letters he carried required both the duke's notice
and
a timely answer.

He was half-ready to take his chances and rap on the door when a footman entered the room carrying a bottle of port. Passing by Nick with barely a nod, he rapped once and entered the duke's study, leaving the door partially ajar, which allowed Nick a glimpse of the occupants on the other side. He immediately recognized the face of the man whose voice he'd failed to identify as the Earl of Rochford, the recently appointed
plenipotentiary
to Turin. Although eavesdropping went against his grain, Nick could hardly ignore the conversation from where he stood.

"You might wish to know, Rochford, that my duchess has taken exception to your prolonged bachelorhood."

"Indeed?" Rochford's brows rose. "Please convey to Her Grace that I intended no offense to her," he returned dryly.

"Come now, man," the duke cajoled, "we both know how women love to meddle in these matters. But in this case, I would have to agree with her. You've had your fun. Given your promotion, I'd say it's nigh time you took on the shackles."

A slight frown marred Rochford's noble brow. "Although I am in no hurry to do so, I confess I've begun to realize the inevitability of it. Has the duchess also taken it upon herself to choose my prospective bride?"

The duke smiled. "I daresay you will find out at supper."

"Indeed? Who then is to be my companion?"

"Lady Mariah of Morehaven."

Nick stiffened. Were the vultures already circling over her? He only knew Lord Rochford from a distance, but like most noblemen, he spent a great deal of time gaming and consorting with ladies of pleasure. Was he prepared to settle into marriage? Doubtful. Perhaps he'd take on the shackles if his circumstances demanded it, but he surely wouldn't look to change his habits. Nick despised the thought of Mariah wed to such a man. She deserved better. If only his own situation were different . . . He shook off the thought. There was no point in fantasizing about what could never be.

"Morehaven? That's a name I haven't heard in some time. Didn't the baron have an apoplexy or some such?" Rochford asked.

"Poor sod may as well be dead," the duke replied. "Hasn't left his bed in over two years."

"Indeed? And where precisely is . . . his bed?"

"Derbyshire," the duke answered. "'Tis a sizeable estate with a healthy income in rents."

"Indeed?" Rochford smiled. "You have my full attention, Your Grace. What know you of the lady? Is she at least tolerable to look upon?"

"I have not laid eyes on her, but I know one who has. My nephew’s secretary arrived with her."

The earl cocked one brow. "So I already have a rival for my heiress?"

"I would hardly say so," the duke replied with a chuckle. "Needham's an underling, a competent man, but without a pot to piss in."

Nick bristled. It was the undeniable truth, but it still stung to hear himself referred to with such disdain.

"Speaking of my nephew," the duke continued, "do I have your support regarding his nomination for first secretary?"

"Ah! Your Grace. I find myself in a precarious position, for Sandwich has already pressed me to back Montagu. Pray don't misapprehend me, Your Grace, but this treaty requires men of experience. "

The duke's expression darkened. "Montagu is mad as a March hare!"

"Montagu may be . . . eccentric . . . but none can deny his abilities. The man commands half a dozen tongues. The entire Montagu family is damnably talented in diplomacy and very well connected abroad. Sandwich believes him ideal for the post."

"Sandwich may be the ambassador, but I am the bloody Secretary of State! Marcus has been six years in the Foreign Service. Moreover, the Dutch like him."

"I see we are at an impasse," Rochford said. "Given we are both sporting men, I propose we settle this matter in a sporting manner. What say you to settling it with a wager?"

"What kind of wager?"

"Cricket, Your Grace. I challenge you to a match."

"And the stakes?"

"My support of your nephew for first secretary," Rochford said. "If you win, I will wholeheartedly sing Marcus's praises."

Nick almost laughed aloud. It was exactly as he had joked only hours ago. He wondered what Marcus would say if he knew his career might be made or broken by a game of cricket.

"And if I lose?" the duke asked.

The earl smiled. "Five hundred guineas would nicely answer my present needs."

"And who would you then support?" the duke asked.

"No one," Rochford replied slyly. "It would not behoove me to take sides."

"Damn me, Rochford!" the duke chuckled. "But you are well suited to these diplomatic games!"

Rochford stood with a grin. "Then you accept my challenge?"

"Yes, begad. I accept. How quickly can you assemble a team?"

"I daresay by the end of this evening if I might recruit from among our delegates."

"Then be off to recruit," the duke said. “We shall play at noon on the morrow."

Nick stepped forward just as the duke flung the door fully open, forcing the men to take notice of him. Rochford merely nodded in passing while the duke eyed him narrowly. "Ah, Needham. You have some letters for me?"

"Indeed, Your Grace, from Lord Bentinck." He reached into his pocket and retrieved the letters and the official dispatches he'd translated en route. "He requests an immediate reply."

"You will carry it back to him?"

"He expects Lord Marcus, Your Grace."

"Speaking of the devil, where is my nephew?"

"I don't know, Your Grace. He set out at least two hours before me but has not yet arrived."

"He's not here?" The duke's brows met in a glower. "I commanded him to be here! This peace congress was to have made his career, and he can't even deign to make a punctual appearance?"

"I don't know what has delayed him, Your Grace, but rest assured it cannot be an intentional slight."

The duke's expression blackened. "I won't hear excuses, Needham!" The duke turned back to his study and poured himself a glass of brandy. "I spend years grooming him, paving his way in the most elite circles, only to be treated with such contempt?"

"I am certain he will send word soon," Nick said. "He was escorting a lady."

"Ha!" The duke released a scornful bark. "If
that's
what's delayed him, his bloody prick has just cost him his future!"

"That's not what I meant to imply, Your Grace. He accompanies Lady Russell's goddaughter, Miss Lydia Trent." Not knowing what had transpired in the passing hours, Nick decided it best to say nothing of their betrothal. "We were detained, so the two of them preceded us to
avoid
a late arrival."

"If that is so, where the hell is he?" the duke demanded. "If you have any regard for your own future, you will find Marcus. If he does not appear at supper tonight, all is lost. Sandwich shall surely promote Edward Montagu to first secretary—with my blessing."

"Understood, Your Grace."
Bloody hell!
It now appeared both of their careers were in jeopardy.

The duke waved a dismissive hand. "We are finished, Needham. I have a match to arrange, and now I'm short one player. You may return in the morning for my reply."

Nicolas bowed and turned toward the study door, cursing Marcus for the browbeating he'd been forced to endure. Was there nothing he could do to regain the duke's favor? Suddenly, Lady Mariah's suggestion didn't seem so ridiculous.

He paused with his hand on the latch. "Your Grace?"

"What is it, Needham?" The duke was already seated behind the massive Macassar desk, engrossed in the letters.

"If you want for a player, I was once accounted a decent batsman."

The duke glanced up to eye Nick appraisingly. "You do realize I have a substantial wager at stake, Needham, and I am not a gracious loser."

"Neither am I, Your Grace. I believe I would do credit to your team."

"That remains to be seen, doesn't it?" the duke replied. "We play at noon tomorrow. I will expect your prompt appearance on the green—with or without Marcus. You will carry my reply to Bentinck
following
the match."

Nick left the duke's study reeling. He was not a gambling man by nature, yet he'd just wagered his entire future on the outcome of a cricket match.

***

"My dear, you are an absolute vision!" Lady Russell exclaimed the moment Mariah presented herself.

"Thank you, my lady," Mariah flushed. "Your maid is very talented." 

"Marguerite is indeed a priceless gem," Lady Russell agreed, "but the French all have such a flair for fashion, you know."

In truth, Mariah felt like a woman of beauty and sophistication for the first time in her life. The French maid had swept her hair atop her head in an elegant coif, allowing a few artfully placed light brown curls to fall in a teasing cascade over one of her exposed shoulders. No expense had been spared on the ivory-colored mantua when it was custom-made two years ago for a debut that never happened. It was fabricated from the finest silk, more than likely smuggled from France, with a stomacher embroidered with gold thread and seed pearls and a bodice and sleeves trimmed with ivory and gold lace as delicate as gossamer wings.

"You will be the belle of the ball," Marguerite had declared with a nod. "The gentlemen will indeed take notice of you this night."

"But what part of me do you suppose they will notice?" Mariah had asked, frowning at the exposed tops of her breasts. Although the gown still fit, the bosom was tighter than it had been before, thrusting Mariah's breasts upward so they nearly spilled from her bodice.

"The female parts, of course!" the maid had replied with a chortle.

"That's precisely what I fear." Although Marguerite remonstrated, Mariah had insisted on adding a lace fichu to protect her modesty. Once she'd donned her embroidered satin slippers, she turned to the looking glass, where Mariah studied herself in amazement. Although she had a good complexion and relatively pretty eyes, she had never considered herself beyond average looking, but now "Mariah the country mouse" was indeed transformed.

Lady Russell stepped back to eye her appraisingly. "I must say the cut and color of that gown could not suit you better, my dear. Let me have a look at you. Turn around, child," Lady Russell commanded, circling a be-ringed finger in the air.

Mariah completed a full rotation, feeling like some otherworldly fairy princess.

Lady Russell smiled at her approvingly. The lady herself was regal in deep blue that set off her silver hair and piercing blue eyes. Although approaching sixty, Lady Russell was still a striking woman. "I daresay you will do very well tonight. I would have you know that I have conferred with the duchess over your dinner companion. Her Grace has chosen to seat you with
William Henry Nassau de Zuylestein, Earl of Rochford. His name may be a mouthful, but he is indeed an excellent prospect."

"Prospect for what?" Mariah asked in confusion.

"For marriage, of course!" Lady Russell laughed. "He is one and thirty, descended from Dutch royalty, highly favored by our king, and miraculously unwed."

"Why do you suppose that is?" Mariah asked. "Is he perhaps . . . deformed in some way?"

"La, child!" Lady Russell laughed. "On the contrary, he is considered quite handsome."

"Then surely there must be some defect in his character that has protected his state of bachelorhood for so long."

"How cynical you are! I daresay he has sown his share of wild oats, but what young nobleman has not?"

"I really did not come here to seek a husband, my lady."

"One does not always have to seek to find, Mariah. You should consider the advantages before you discount the notion."

Mariah exhaled a sigh. "Lydia has said the same—that I will never meet anyone suitable back home at Morehaven. My mother and I rarely venture out and have few visitors. But I despise the idea of marriage to someone I know nothing about. What manner of man is Lord Rochford?"