He's No Prince Charming (Ever After) (28 page)

“So
you
are my fiancée.”

Caroline couldn’t help it.

She fainted.

Elle Daniels grew up in a quiet, suburban town in central Massachusetts—a town so lacking in excitement she was forced to live vicariously through novels. One day, discontent with her reading options, she took the matter into her own hands. So began Elle’s journey into all things romantic and fantastical. In her early twenties, she remains in that same small town, tagging along with her heroes and heroines on their madcap adventures.

You can learn more at:

ElleDaniels.com

Twitter @NovelsByElle

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R
oderick FitzHugh, the Duke of Harwood, was not insane. Therefore, someone trying to legally declare him so left a bitter taste in his mouth. These next few moments would determine whether his title could be saved.

Giles was such an arse. He was doing this just because he could.

He sighed, irritated, as he hovered in the doorway of the Marquis of Fleetwood’s townhouse. He knew he was about to cause an uproar by crashing the man’s wedding reception, but frankly, he didn’t care. Roderick had seen him leave already, and according to his sources, Fleetwood and his bride wouldn’t return for two weeks. It was the opportune time to make his move.

Roderick threw open the door, surprising the butler, and stepped into the foyer without introduction. Ignoring the butler’s offers of assistance, he strode purposefully down an immense hallway, following the hum of voices, and emerged into an open double doorway.

The instant a particular chubby lord spotted him, a curse of disbelief passed the man’s pursed lips. The lady in his company turned to investigate and, in his opinion, gave a rather overly dramatic shriek of shock. There was a domino effect after that, as people turned in horror and scurried out of his path.

He was neither royalty nor a biblical figure, therefore, crowds parting for him was downright infuriating. One would think he’d killed someone.

Oh, right.

They did.

With complete distain, he pinned the vipers with a dark glare. He disliked his role as villain, but he’d learned he had no choice but to play along. At first, the grief at the loss of his father, and the subsequent rejection by the society he had been groomed to lead, had devastated him. His identity had been ripped from him by these very people. After a time, he’d learned to accept his fearsome reputation and actually found it
enjoyable
, liberating. Most of his childhood and teen years had been spent following the strict dictates that defined a perfect gentleman. And even now, after several years abroad, and despite his anxiety, he found he
enjoyed
the stunned expressions on his former peers,
enjoyed
being viewed as someone to be feared. It was a different, but very potent, power.

What had actually convinced him to come back to this?

Roderick knew the answer to that—his cousin, Matthew. Along with a healthy dose of curiosity and masochism. Independently, none were good, combined…well, they resulted in
this
.

His cousin’s voice floated through his mind.
“Just make a good impression, Roderick.”

He scoffed. He hadn’t worried about first impressions in ages. And he didn’t really want to start now, but foiling Giles’s plan depended upon it. There was no way he’d allow that man control of his fortune. Not when Giles was the one responsible for all the ills he had suffered since the day his father was murdered.

Roderick avoided eye contact with one of the more vicious gossips of the
ton
, whose face paled to a frightening white, and scanned the crowd. According to Matthew, the woman he was looking for was taller than most women and renowned for her poise. She always wore elbow-length gloves, and had astonishingly long, blond hair famously piled intricately atop her head. She was considered a paragon among the
ton
.

She, Matthew had insisted, was just what Roderick needed to prove he was not insane, but actually quite rational and fully competent to manage his title, despite years of absence from Society.

It also helped immensely that the woman in question, one Lady Caroline Bradley, was very conveniently his fiancée. Really, if he discounted Giles, he’d experienced a certain amount of luck of late.

He didn’t trust it. At all.

Still, Roderick was relieved he didn’t have to ferret out a suitable deb and attempt an undoubtedly nightmarish courtship. Much too much effort, especially when he had no intention of marrying the chit. He just needed an acceptable woman of Society to help clean up his reputation. How had Matthew worded it?

“
You’ll be considered sane by association.”

He snorted. Yes, that sounded about right.

Moving deeper into the room, he used his height to advantage, peering over balding heads and sparkling turbans. However, he found it uncommonly difficult. Whenever his gaze settled on one person too long, the crowd would huddle close together, as if numbers would protect them. From what? According to one whispering woman, she feared a bloody killing spree.

Suddenly his confidence faltered. He had once moved among this group with pride, basking in their respect. He hated to admit that their behavior cut. Deeply.

Roderick bit back a frustrated sigh. He was a duke, damn it. How could he have been brought so low as to be forced to hide himself away in another
continent
? And, how could a piece of him still long to be part of this life? Roderick ran a hand through his inky locks, banishing the thoughts, and pierced a nearby gentleman with a sneer of contempt.
Where the bloody hell was this damn woman?

Turning abruptly, he ignored the scattering vermin in favor of two pretty blondes moving about the outer wall of the room, their pace even and full of assurance, as if they had not a care in the world. Or an accused murderer in their midst. Instantly, he liked them. Even better, the taller of the two women…

Poise?

Check.

Gloves?

Check—Rick dimly realized the delicate lace was a bit…uh, stirring…

Copious blond locks?

Check. A double check for the sheer quantity of it. He wondered how her neck—a rather long and graceful neck, primed for kisses—hadn’t snapped under the weight.

A lazy smirk of satisfaction lifted the corners of his mouth. He’d found Lady Caroline. And if her backside was any indication, he’d at least have something pretty to look at while he kept her company.

If
she allowed him to keep her company.

He anticipated one of three responses from his lovely bride-to-be. The first, but unfortunately the least likely of the scenarios, was that Lady Bradley would calmly agree to his proposal—instead of a monetary payout to him for breaking their betrothal, he’d take a few months of “happy” public courting. The second and far more likely situation would be the lady’s refusal to help him in any way, shape, or form. However, with the contract in place, she would have a difficult time marrying another. The last, and most disagreeable and problematic option, involved a wailing, wilting flower, who refused to help him on principle, or–God forbid—obediently agreed to the marriage.

Roderick didn’t like his odds for a peaceful outcome tonight.

He approached them in time to hear her laugh. It was surprisingly pleasant and carefree, not what he’d expected from a woman who was reportedly a slave to propriety. He’d assumed the woman would be a sourpuss, whose laugh—if she had one—would be contrived and shallow.

He only saw the slender curve of her back again, but up close, she was even more promising than from afar. He assessed her companion. He conceded the woman was just as lovely, but the light in her eyes, clearly displaying her mischievous nature, was not to his taste. Too troublesome. Her hair was a shade darker, a more golden color, than his fiancée’s light blonde. And when he met her gaze over her friend’s shoulder, its golden hue reminded him of a cat. Her cheeks paled and her fingers tightened to a white-knuckle grip on her delicate blue fan. A soft snap reached his ears and he realized its delicate spines had cracked.

His reputation had preceded him. Again.

Halting steps from his quarry, he addressed her back, momentarily distracted by the long seam of tiny buttons trailing from her elegant neck to the pleasingly smooth curve of her rear. “Lady Caroline Bradley?”

She spun on her heel, her skirt ballooning with the rapid movement.

Beautiful.

He tensed, struck by the woman’s appearance. Roderick thought his heart may have actually skipped a beat.

Green. Her eyes were a light shade of green. They widened at the sight of him, giving her an incredibly innocent air. Her face was narrow and nose slightly upturned at the tip. Gently curved brows and smooth pink lips softened her striking features. White blond hair was artfully swept up in intricate braids and woven with small pearls and verdant ribbons. She held her tall, willowy form completely erect, the result, he knew, of years of strict schooling. Her subtle curves were outlined by the perfectly tailored, emerald-colored gown, its skirt slightly twisted from her spin. It brushed scandalously against his legs, so near he was to her. He leaned even closer, as if pulled by the clinging grasp of its soft fabric. She was heartbreakingly beautiful.

And disconcertingly familiar.

He felt his brow furrow as Lady Caroline’s face began to rapidly pale. He’d met her before, at some point in their lives. He was certain of it. Roderick
never
forgot a face. Especially not one as striking as hers. But the question was—where? He’d visited many cities with friends and his father before his death. He’d visited an even wider array since leaving London. Nowhere in those recollections could he place her. She was also too young to have been out in Society before he left England.

An uncomfortable, nagging feeling that he was forgetting something very important gripped him. He realized what he felt was guilt. That same feeling he’d experienced every time his father had admonished him for not meeting obligations he’d made. And while Roderick no longer considered himself a gentleman, the thought that he had in some way failed this woman swamped him. He’d talked to her, once upon a time.

Who the hell was she?

Shaking himself of all these thoughts rattling about in his head, he managed to focus on the matter at hand—proving he wasn’t insane.

“So
you
are my fiancé.”

Confusion and frustration emerged as a growl that even he could hear in his voice.
So much for a good first impression.

Gloved fingers rose to her lips, which had rounded to form a silent, shocked, “Oh.” His heart clenched in sudden envy of that white lace. He found himself waiting, oddly breathless, for her response to his announcement. Since he’d arrived so unexpectedly, he’d anticipated possible reactions. She could pale or flinch. She could cuss or scream. She could cut him or storm away. She could—

Faint.

He blinked. She could definitely faint, he mused, as the lithe woman crumpled to the floor at his feet in a pile of green silk.

Roderick cleared his throat. “Well, that was unexpected.”

Truly, he knew his reputation was in tatters, but he hadn’t thought it was
that
dastardly. Matthew had alluded to wild rumors about his behavior, but what on earth had people been saying about him while he had been in France?

Lady Bradley’s companion gasped, dropped to her knees and began shaking her. “Caro!”

Roderick blinked, momentarily paralyzed by the scene.

He highly doubted someone who’d just fainted should be manhandled quite so roughly.

“Caroline!”

He turned at the panicked voice. A male version of Lady Caroline’s friend dropped to the floor. He shot Rick a murderous glare before propping the fallen woman on his arm and joining the attempt to revive her. Roderick experienced two revelations. The first—her swoon did not bode well for Matthew’s plan. While it was a good one, it hinged upon the female actually being conscious throughout his courtship.

The second, one he only reluctantly acknowledged, was that the chivalry instilled in him since childhood was not dead after all. Surprisingly, it roared to life and kicked him in the gut.

“Damnit,” he grumbled.

Kneeling, he pushed the others aside and scooped her in his arms.

As if unfrozen from a magic spell, the elites burst into shocked titters and hushed whispers. His fiancée’s friends gaped.

Ignoring them all, Roderick swept her from the room. He hadn’t a clue where he was going, but he very much doubted any woman would want to wake to find herself fodder for the
ton
’s gossip mill.

Each step jostled Lady Caroline closer, pressing her form to his chest. He hated to admit it, but he was pleased by how well she fit against him. She smelt pleasantly of grass and sunshine, as if she’d spent the day in the park. Her hair, brushing his neck and jaw, was as soft as the finest down. Heat radiated from the slit of exposed skin at the top of her glove, seeming to burn his right hand. The silk gown slid sensually across his other palm, giving him a new appreciation for the stuff.

Suddenly aware of just what picture he was painting for the
ton
, he lengthened his stride, and held her tighter. He’d serve as a shield for her against Society, no matter how battered a shield he may be.

“Your Grace!”

Rick paused at the urgent whisper. He glanced back into the room to find his intended’s companion racing to catch up to him. She assessed him briefly before nodding to herself, seeming to have made a decision.

“This way. There’s a study.”

Roderick grunted and followed.

The shorter woman led him into a neat little chamber whose walls were lined with gold-lettered, leather-bound books. He laid Lady Caroline gently on a couch and stepped back so her friend could tend her. His fiancée moaned.

The woman shot him a panicked expression, whispering furiously, “I think it best if you weren’t here when she woke.”

Roderick, seeing the wisdom in that assessment, nodded. “I’ll wait outside. Please let me know when she is ready to talk.”

“Of course,” the woman muttered, already giving her friend her full attention. He hurriedly exited the room, literally bumping into his fiancée’s male friend.

Seeing him now, Roderick realized just how young he was. His furious glare was little more than a puppy attempting to stare down his master. Roderick dismissed the lanky man, his attention turned to the real threat: yet another blond man, much older, who was taking confident, commanding strides in Roderick’s direction.

The man barely dipped his head in acknowledgment when he arrived at the doors, “I am Alec St. Leon, Viscount Llywelyn. Is my charge in the study?”