For Love Alone (3 page)

“Uh, do you think that is wise, Sophy?” At her look, he muttered, “I mean your husband is hardly in the ground, and you take off for Cornwall—it don't look good.”

“Since when have you cared for appearances?” Sophy demanded, her fingers tightly gripping the top of the desk.

“Since there are rumors about Simon's death.” Edward returned unhappily. “I tell you, it don't look good. I will be blunt—some of Simon's friends think that you pushed him down the stairs. Think you should stay here 'til things quiet down a bit.”

“Thank you for your advice, uncle, but I am determined to go live with Marcus and Phoebe . . .” A hard note entered her voice.
“Some
one should be seeing to their care.”

Like Simon, Edward was forty-three, but the signs of his years of wild, careless dissipation rested lightly on his boyishly handsome features. He was not quite as youthful-looking as he had been a decade ago, but the creases that lined his face seemed to make him even more attractive. With his thick fair hair brushed back from his wide forehead, his starched cravat elegantly arranged, and his tall, fit body clothed in the most fashionable garments the most expensive tailors in London could sew, he was a commanding figure. But Sophy knew everything about him was false.

It was her father's fortune that paid for his lavish living. Edward had wasted his own not-inconsiderable fortune years ago gambling. He was weak. Vain. Unscrupulous. Selfish. But he'd had no say in her life since she'd married and, along with her fortune, had been passed like a parcel from her uncle's control to that of her husband. She smiled grimly. Edward had not liked seeing such a large chunk of the Grayson fortune escaping his hands and falling into Simon's, but he'd had no choice—her father's will had stated that her portion of the estate be disbursed when she wed. Of course, it had changed nothing for her, the law allowed her husband to hoard or squander her fortune as he saw fit Fortunately, Simon had been wealthy enough in his own right and he had not dipped into her inheritance from her father. And as widow, she realized with shock, she had far more rights than a mere wife or daughter. She could do anything she wanted. She would finally come into full and total control of her own bountiful inheritance from her father. And the handsome jointure Simon had agreed to in a weak moment when they married. It, too, would be hers to command, with no one to gainsay her. Between the fortune from her father and the jointure from her husband, she was going to be an extremely rich young woman. More importantly, for the first time in her life, she was no longer under the domination of a man. Not a father. Not a guardian. Not a husband. Especially not a husband!

Edward's words confirmed her thoughts. Looking sulky, he muttered, “Well, there is nothing I can do to stop you. If you want people to think you murdered your husband, that is your affair.”

“Thank you for your concern,” she said dryly. “Now if you do not mind, I shall leave you—there are things I must see to before I go.”

Two hours later, her belongings piled onto the Marlowe coach that the new Lord Marlowe had graciously lent her for her journey to Cornwall, Sophy rode away from the place that had been her home for nearly three long, miserable years. It was a place she never wanted to see again. Her thoughts were focused on the future. Before many days, she would be home, home with Marcus and Phoebe. And this time, no one would ever be able to separate them again.

She grinned, her lovely golden eyes glinting with suppressed excitement. Her entire future lay in front of her, and it was so
very
different today than it had been a mere forty-eight hours ago. She was young. She was wealthy. And she was
free!

T
he elegant rooms were packed with gaily dressed ladies and gentlemen, the sound of their laughter and chatter almost overpowering. From the size of the glittering crowd, it appeared that Lord and Lady Denning's at home was going to receive the highest accolade possible from the members of the ton. It was indeed a dreadful squeeze.

Having found a small, quiet alcove in which to observe the activities, Viscount Harrington viewed the swirling mass with a jaundiced eye. To think that this was the height of ambition: to be packed into overheated rooms like raw recruits in the hold of a ship on their way to dreaded India; to see and be seen and to waste one's time prattling complete nonsense to vaguely familiar acquaintances, before departing and hurrying to the next social engagement. He shook his head. It was madness. Dashed if he wouldn't rather face a charge of Napoléon's finest cavalry than be subjected to another night like tonight.

So why was he here? Because I have to find myself a bloody wife! Ives thought irritably, as he stared out at the shifting crowd of women in their expensive high-waisted gowns of pastel silks and spangled gauze. The gentlemen were also garbed in the height of fashion; pristine white cravats, formfitting coats, embroidered waistcoats and black knee breeches.

It was almost incomprehensible to him that he found himself in this position. Less than fifteen months ago, he had been a carefree bachelor, marriage the farthest thought from his mind. He had a position that he enjoyed—a major in the King's Cavalry—and with the war against Napoleon still raging, there was every possibility of rapid advancement. He had certainly never expected to find himself inheriting his uncle's title and fortune and being placed in the position of needing to beget an heir.

A shaft of pain went through him. Could it have been just fourteen months ago that he had learned of the tragedy that had overtaken the Harrington family? Fourteen months ago that he had found himself devastated by the news that his father, uncle and two cousins had drowned when his uncle's yacht had gone down in a sudden squall? In one fell swoop, Ives had found himself the sole male survivor of the branch of the family which bore the proud Harrington name. Aunt Barbara's two sons, John and Charles, bore her husband's name, so that left them out. Clearly it was his duty, he thought morosely, to find a wife and replenish the Harrington blood. He owed it to his dead father and uncle and cousins to make certain that the proud name of Harrington continued—to ensure that there
was
a twelfth Viscount Harrington to inherit.

He sighed. I really
would
prefer to be fighting Bony, he mused unhappily. Complex battle maneuvers he understood. Women were something else again entirely. Not that there had been no women in his life. There had been quite a few. But he'd had only one use for them. And certainly there had never been any gently reared virgins among them! His women had known what they were doing, why they were in his bed, and what he expected from them. He grimaced. It sounded bloody cold when he thought of it that way. But it hadn't been. He had also known what he was doing, having learned long ago that there was much pleasure to be gained from giving pleasure, even if he was paying for the woman's favors.

Ives glanced around the room. He wondered how some of the young ladies parading here tonight would react if he made a straightforward proposition: Marry me, give me an heir, and I shall see to it that you never want for anything again. You shall be a viscountess, live in a fine home, and have a tidy fortune at your dainty fingertips. Once you have given me my son, we shan't have to bother with each other very much. We shall live separately and what you do with your life will be your business—provided you are discreet and do not besmirch my name. So? Is it a bargain?

He scowled as he realized that what he proposed was not a great deal different than most of the marriages contracted in the ton. And he admitted sourly that he did not want a marriage like the one that had befallen his father. He definitely didn't want
his
wife running away with another man and leaving him with two sons to raise. Bloody hell, no!

A soft giggle interrupted his unpleasant thoughts, and his gaze fell upon a young lady, not more than eighteen, who had been angling for several minutes for his attention. The bleak expression on his bold-featured face and the dark emotion roiling in his devil green eyes made her blanch and scurry away. Viscount or not, she suddenly wanted nothing to do with him.

Ives was amused by her reaction, and a singularly attractive smile transformed his features. That it had often been compared to a brigand's smile did not detract from its impact. He knew that he was not
un
handsome, but he would freely admit that his nose was too large, his cheekbones too prominent, and his mouth too wide for true male beauty. But as several women had told him, there was something about him. . . . Whatever it was, when he flashed that smile, women responded—as did the young lady he had just sent into flight. She glanced back, and, seeing the change in his expression, her step slowed, and she dimpled and demurely lowered her eyes.

Ives nearly laughed aloud. Little minx. His thick black hair, coupled with heavily browed green eyes, skin far darker than was fashionable and a body of a Greek athlete had served him well with the opposite sex. The fact that he now came with a title and a fortune only made him that much more desirable. He grimaced, suddenly feeling rather vain.

“Charming though little Felice Alden may be, she is far too young for a dangerous rogue like you, my dear fellow,” drawled a familiar voice. “I beg you, for her sake, do not raise her hopes.”

Looking at the speaker who strolled up to stand beside him, Ives grinned. “Percival! What the devil are you doing here? I thought you never attended this sort of boring affair.”

Percival Forrest, a willowy fop just a few years younger than Ives, made a face. “M'father's sister. She came up to town for a few weeks and I was not quick enough to escape her clutches when she came to call. Insisted that I escort her here tonight.” A sly smile crossed his sharp, attractive features. “No need to ask why you are here. How is the bride-hunting coming along?”

Ives shrugged. “Let us just say that the announcement of my nuptials is not in imminent danger of appearing in the
Times.”
He jerked his head in the direction of the young damsel, who was still hovering in the vicinity. “And if the Alden chit is a sample of the majority of the prospects to bear my name, I fear that it will be a
very
long time before an announcement does appear.”

The two men exchanged an amused glance. Percival had been a lieutenant under Ives's command until nearly five years ago, when he had unexpectedly inherited a comfortable fortune from his great-uncle and had sold out and returned to England. Ives had been sorry to see him go but pleased for his friend's good fortune. They had known each other all their lives—the Forrest estate lay near the Harrington family home, and they had been particular friends in the cavalry. Having grown up with him, Ives knew that beneath Percival's foppish exterior lay a fearless heart and a clever mind.

Ives had always enjoyed himself in Percival's company, and, upon his return to England last year, Percival had been one of the first people to call upon him. Their shared military background made a further bond between them. Unlike Ives, who would have preferred to bury himself in the country, Percival had taken to the ton like a duck to water. Since his arrival in London a month ago, Ives had relied increasingly on Percival's wickedly piercing insight into the antics of the ton to help him in his reluctant search for a wife.

They talked for a few minutes about a horse they had both liked at Tattersall's but that neither had decided to bid upon. From there the conversation drifted onto the exciting news that had arrived in London only days ago of Lord Cochrae's destruction of the French fleet at Aix. From that victory, it was an easy jump to Sir Arthur Wellesley's recent arrival in Portugal.

For the first time that evening, Ives was thoroughly enjoying himself. He was deeply immersed in conversation with Percival, when something—a laugh?—caught his attention.

Like a tiger scenting prey, his head lifted. The crowd before him parted suddenly, and there she was.

Gripping Percival's arm, he demanded, “Who is she?”

Percival, in the midst of discussing a complicated military maneuver, looked nonplussed for a second. When his gaze followed Ives's, he groaned.

“Oh, absolutely not! Of all the women here tonight, she arouses your interest?”

When Ives remained unmoved, his gaze fixed intently on the scintillating creature at the center of a circle of admiring males, Percival sighed. “Oh, very well, if you must know. She is Sophy, Lady Marlowe, the Marquise Marlowe to be exact.”

Ives was stunned by the sensation of dismay that filled him. “She is married?”

Percival sighed again. “No. Widowed.”

Ives's face brightened, and, with renewed intensity, his eyes wandered over her. She was like a butterfly. A lovely, golden butterfly. From the crown of her golden curls to the tantalizing glimpse of her golden slippers beneath the hem of her golden gown. Her bare shoulders even gleamed like palest gold in the light from the many crystal candelabra gracing the high ceiling of the large room. And when she laughed . . . when she laughed, Ives was aware of an odd thrill going through him. She was, he thought dazedly, absolutely the most exquisite creature he had ever seen in his life. Tall and slender, she looked as if the slightest puff of wind would send her drifting away, and yet there was an air of strength about her. The profile turned his way was utterly enchanting.

“Introduce me,” he commanded.

“Dash it all, Ives! Did you not hear a word I just said? She is a widow—a widow with a nasty past, believe me.”

Ives glanced at his friend. “What do you mean?”

Percival grimaced. “Do you even know who Simon Marlowe was?”

“I seem to recall my father mentioning his name once when I was home on leave, but no, I do not know him.”

“Which is just as well! He was by all accounts a nasty piece of work.
Not
a gentleman, despite his title—and certainly not a man any self-respecting family would wish one of their daughters to marry.”

Ives frowned. “Are you saying that her family is not a respectable one?”

“Not exactly. Her father's family is exemplary.” Percival looked uncomfortable. “It is her mother's family . . .” He cleared his throat and fumbled for words.

He had Ives's full attention now. “What about her mother's family?”

Knowing from long experience that Ives was not going to give up until all his questions were answered to his satisfaction, Percival muttered, “Damme, I had hoped your paths would not cross and that . . .” He took a deep breath, and blurted out, “Her mother was Jane Scoville.”

Ives stiffened as a new, dangerous element added to the intensity of his gaze which was still fastened on Lady Marlowe's profile. “The same Jane Scoville that charmed my brother, Robert?” he asked in a deadly tone.

“The same,” Percival admitted uneasily. “Now do you see why she is absolutely the last woman you would be interested in? And the identity of her mother is aside from the fact that there are rumors that Lady Marlowe murdered her husband.”

A silence fell between the two men, Ives hardly hearing Percival's last sentence. Jane Scoville, he thought, his hands unconsciously clenching into fists. The heartless, silly jade who had beguiled Robert, until he had been mad with love for her. So besotted that he could not accept the news of her engagement to the Earl of Grayson. So very mad, so despondent, that on the day she had married the Earl, he had hanged himself in the main stables at Harrington Chase. Ives had just turned ten years old at the time, but it was as if it had all happened yesterday. He had adored his brother, twelve years his senior, and he had been the one to find Robert's body.

“And how is dear Jane these days?” Ives asked grimly. “I must pay her a call if she is in town.”

“She's dead, Ives. She died several years ago.” Percival looked thoughtful. “You could, I suppose, defile her grave if you think it would make you feel better.”

A reluctant laugh was dragged from Ives, and he relaxed slightly. “No, I'll not stoop to that.” He jerked his head in Lady Marlowe's direction. “But I might be tempted to extract a little revenge from her daughter.”

Percival shook his head vehemently. “Did you not hear what I said about her?
She murdered her husband.
She is not a lady, I, for one, would care to trifle with.”