One
Tempting Proposal
An
Accidental Heirs Novel
Christy
Carlyle
Book
Information:
Genre: Historical Romance
Publisher: Avon Impulse
On-Sale: 11/17/2015 |
ISBN: 9780062428011
Synopsis
Becoming engaged? Simple. Resisting temptation?
Impossible
Sebastian Fennick, the newest Duke of Wrexford,
prefers the straightforwardness of mathematics to romantic nonsense. When he
meets Lady Katherine Adderly at the first ball of the season, he finds her as
alluring as she is disagreeable. His title may now require him to marry, but
Sebastian can’t think of anyone less fit to be his wife, even if he can’t get
her out of his mind.
After five seasons of snubbing suitors and making
small talk, Lady Kitty has seen all the ton has to offer…and she’s not
impressed. But when Kitty’s overbearing father demands she must marry before
her beloved younger sister can, she proposes a plan to the handsome duke.
Kitty’s schemes always seem to backfire, but she knows this one can’t go wrong.
After all, she’s not the least bit tempted by Sebastian, is she?
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Chapter
2
Cambridgeshire, May, 1891
Slashing the air with a sword was doing nothing to
improve Sebastian Fennick’s mood. As he thrust, the needle-thin foil bending
and arching through the air and sending tingling reverberations along his hand,
he glared across at his opponent, though he doubted she could see any better
than he could from behind the tight mesh of her fencing mask.
His sister parried before offering a spot-on riposte
of her own, her foil bowing in a perfect semicircle as she struck him.
“Are you making any sort of effort at all?”
Seb bit back the reply burning the tip of his
tongue. Fencing was the least of his concerns. In the last month he’d learned
of the death of a cousin he’d barely known and inherited the responsibility for
one dukedom, three thousand acres of land, hundreds of tenants, twenty-eight
staff members, one London residence, and a country house with so many rooms, he
was still counting. He could find no competitive pleasure in wielding a
lightweight foil when his mind brimmed with repairs, meetings, investments, and
invitations to social events that spanned the rest of the calendar year.
And all of it was nothing to the bit of paper in his
waistcoat pocket, separated by two layers of fabric from the scar on his chest,
dual reminders of what a fool he’d been, how one woman’s lies nearly ended his
life.
He wouldn’t open her letter. Instead, he’d take
pleasure in burning the damn thing.
Never again. Never would he allow himself to be
manipulated as he had been in the past. He had to put the past from his mind
altogether.
Fencing wasn’t doing the trick. Give him a proper
sword and let him dash it against a tree trunk. Better yet, give him a dragon
to slay. That might do quite nicely, but this dance of lunges and feints only
made his irritation bubble over.
Yet his sister didn’t deserve his ire, and he’d no
wish to stifle her enthusiasm for the newest of her myriad interests.
“I fear fencing and I do not suit, Pippa.” As she
returned to en garde position, preparing for another strike, Seb hastened to
add, “Nor shall we ever.”
Pippa sagged in disappointment when he reached up to
remove his fencing mask. “I’d hoped you might find it invigorating. A pleasant
challenge.”
In truth, his mathematical mind found the precision
of the sport appealing, and the physical exertion was refreshing. But when he’d
inherited the dukedom of Wrexford, Seb left his mathematics career at Cambridge
behind. And weren’t there a dozen tasks he should be attending to rather than
waving a flexible bit of steel about at his sister?
“Invigorating, yes. Challenging, absolutely.
Pleasant? No.”
When he began removing his gloves and unbuttoning
the fencing jacket Pippa insisted he purchase, she raised a hand to stop him.
“Wait. We must do this properly.” She approached and
offered him her hand as if they were merely fellow sportsmen rather than
siblings. “Politeness is an essential element of fencing.”
Seb cleared his throat, infused his baritone with
gravitas, and shook his younger sister’s hand. “Well done, Miss Fennick.”
She’d tucked her fencing mask under her sword arm
and met his gaze with eyes the same unique shade as their father’s. Along with
her dark hair and whiskey brown eyes, Pippa had inherited their patriarch’s
love for mathematics and sporting activity of every kind.
“Fine effort, Your Grace.” And father’s compassion
too, apparently.
Pippa smiled at him, her disappointment well-hidden
or forgotten, and Seb returned the expression. Then her words, the sound of his
honorific at the end, settled in his mind. Your Grace. It still sounded odd to
his ears.
Seb and his sister had been raised for academic
pursuits, children of a mathematician father and a mother with as many
accomplishments as her daughter now boasted. Formality, titles, rules—none of
it came naturally. The title of Duke of Wrexford had passed to him, but it
still rankled and itched, as ill-fitting as the imprisoning fencing mask he’d
been relieved to remove.
As they exited the corner of the second ballroom
Pippa had set out as her fencing strip, she turned one of her inquisitive
glances on him.
“Perhaps you’d prefer boxing, like Grandfather.”
Their grandfather had been as well known for his love of pugilism as his
architectural designs, and had reputedly been one of Gentleman Jackson’s best
pupils.
Taller and broader than many of his classmates, Seb
had engaged in his own share of scuffles in youth, and he’d been tempted to
settle a few gentlemanly disagreements with his fists, but he never enjoyed
fighting with his body as much as sparring with his intellect. Reason. Logic.
Those were the weapons a man should bring to a dispute.
“Unless you’re like Oliver and can’t abide the sight
of blood.”
It seemed his sister still sparred. Standing on the
threshold of Sebastian’s study, Oliver Treadwell lifted his hands, settled them
on his hips, and heaved a frustrated sigh.
“I did consider medical school, Pip. I can bear the
sight of blood better than most.” Ollie’s eyes widened as he scanned the two of
them. “What in heaven’s name is that awful getup you two are wearing?”
Seb didn’t know if it was his lack of enthusiasm for
fencing or Ollie’s jibe about their costumes that set her off, but the shock of
seeing Pippa lift her foil, breaking a key point of protocol she’d been quite
insistent upon—“Never lift a sword when your opponent is unmasked”—blunted the
amusement of watching Ollie rear back like a frightened pony.
“Fencing costumes,” she explained through clenched
teeth. “I tried instructing Sebastian, though he says the sport doesn’t suit
him.” She hadn’t actually touched Ollie with the tip of her foil and quickly
lowered it to her side, but the movement failed to ease the tension between
them.
Turning back to Seb, she forced an even expression.
“I’ll go up and change for luncheon.” She offered Ollie a curt nod as she
passed him, her wide fencing skirt fluttering around her ankles. At the door,
she grasped the frame and turned back. “And don’t call me Pip. No one calls me
that anymore.”
“Goodness. When did she begin loathing me?” Ollie
watched the doorway where Pippa exited as if she might reappear to answer his
query. “Women are terribly inscrutable, aren’t they?”
Seb thought the entire matter disturbingly clear,
but he suspected Pippa would deny her infatuation with Oliver as heatedly as
Ollie would argue against the claim. They’d been friends since childhood, and
Ollie had been an unofficial member of the Fennick family from the day he’d
lost his parents at twelve years old. Seb wasn’t certain when Pippa began
viewing Ollie less as a brotherly friend and more as a man worthy of her
admiration.
As much as he loved him, Seb secretly prayed his
sister’s interest in the young buck would wane. Treadwell had never been the
steadiest of fellows, particularly when it came to matters of the heart, and
Seb would never allow anyone to hurt Pippa.
“Welcome to Roxbury.” He practiced the words as he
spoke them, hoping the oddness of playing host in another man’s home would
eventually diminish.
“Thank you. It is grand, is it not? Had you ever
visited before?”
“Once, as a young child. I expected it to be less
imposing when I saw it again as a man.” It hadn’t been. Not a whit. Upon
arriving thirty days prior, he’d stood on the threshold a moment with his mouth
agape before taking a step inside.
Seb caught Ollie staring at the ceiling, an
extraordinary web of plastered fan-vaulting meant to echo the design in the
nave of an abbey the late duke had visited in Bath. Every aspect of Roxbury had
been designed with care, and yet to match the whims of each successive duke and
duchess. Somehow its hodgepodge of architectural styles blended into a
harmonious and impressive whole.
“You mentioned an urgent matter. Trouble in London?”
A few years older than his friend, Seb worried about Ollie with the same
ever-present paternal concern he felt for his sister.
After trying his hand at philosophy, chemistry, and
medicine, Ollie had decided to pursue law and currently studied at the Inner
Temple with high hopes of being called to the bar and becoming a barrister
within the year.
“No, all is well, but those words don’t begin to
describe my bliss.”
Bowing his head, Sebastian closed his eyes a moment
and drew in a long breath, expanding his chest as far as the confines of his
fencing jacket would allow. It had to be a woman. Another woman. Seb had never
known a man as eager to be enamored. Unfortunately, the mysteries of love
couldn’t be bound within the elegance of a mathematical equation. If they
could, Ollie’s equation would be a simple one. Woman plus beauty equals
infatuation. If Ollie’s interest in this woman or that ever bloomed into
constancy, Seb could rally a bit happiness for his friend.
Constancy. An image of black hair came to mind with
a piercing pain above his brow. How could he advocate that Ollie learn
constancy when his own stubborn heart brought him nothing but misery?
“Tell me about her.”
Ollie’s face lit with pleasure. “She’s an angel.”
The last had been “a goddess” and Seb mentally
calculated where each designation might rank in the heavenly hierarchy.
“With golden hair and sapphire eyes …” Ollie’s loves
were always described in the same terms one might use when speaking of a
precious relic Mr. Petrie had dug up in Egypt, each of them carved in
alabaster, gilded, and bejeweled.
“Slow down, Ollie. Let’s start with her name.”
“Hattie. Harriet, though she says she dislikes
Harriet. I think it’s lovely. Isn’t it a beautiful name, really?”
Too preoccupied with unbuttoning himself from his
fencing gear, Sebastian didn’t bother offering a response. Ollie rarely had any
trouble rambling on without acknowledgment.
“She’s the daughter of a marquess. Clayborne.
Perhaps you know him.”
Seb arched both brows and Ollie smiled. “Yes, I
know. You’ve only been a duke for the space of a month. Don’t they introduce
you to all of the other aristocrats straight away, then?”
A chuckle rumbled up in Seb’s chest, and for a
moment the burdens that had piled up since the last duke’s passing slipped
away. He laughed with Ollie as they had when they were simpler men, younger,
less distracted with love or responsibilities. Seb felt lighter, and he held a
smile so long his cheeks began to ache before the laughter ebbed and he
addressed the serious matter of Oliver’s pursuit of a marquess’s daughter.
“I think the better question is whether you’ve met
Harriet’s father. What are your intentions toward this young woman?”
Ollie ducked his chin and deflated into a chair.
“Goodness, Bash, you sound a bit like you’re Hattie’s father.”
Only Ollie called him Bash, claiming he’d earned it
for defending him in a fight with a particularly truculent classmate. The
nickname reminded him of all their shared battles as children, but if Ollie
thought its use would soften him or make him retreat, he was wrong. Ollie
needed someone to challenge him, to curb his tendency to rush in without
considering the consequences. If he lost interest in this young woman as he had
with all the others, a breach-of-promise suit brought by a marquess could ruin
Ollie’s burgeoning legal career.
“I intend to marry her.”
“May I ask how long you’ve been acquainted with the
young lady?” Mercy, he did sound like a father. As the eldest, he’d always led
the way, and with the loss of their parents, Seb had taken on a parental role
with his sister too. Pippa might wish to marry one day, and it was his duty to
ensure any prospective groom wasn’t a complete and utter reprobate.
“Not all of us fall in love with our childhood
friend.” The barb had no doubt been meant to bring Seb’s past heartbreak to
mind, but Seb thought of Pippa. Thankfully, she hadn’t heard Ollie’s
declaration.
“Indeed. I would merely advise you to take more time
and court Lord Clayborne’s daughter properly. Her father will expect no less.”
Even with a properly drawn-out courtship, a marquess
would be unlikely to allow his daughter to marry a man who’d yet to become a
barrister and may not succeed once he had.
“I must offer for her now. Soon. She’s coming out
this season, and I couldn’t bear for another man to snatch her up.”
“You make her sound like a filly at market.”
“Will you come to London and meet her? I know you’ll
approve of the match once you’ve met her.”
Seb had already given into the necessity of spending
the season in London at Wrexford House. Pippa had no interest in anything in
London aside from the Reading Room at the British Museum, but their
aristocratic aunt, Lady Stamford, insisted he give his sister a proper coming
out. She’d also reminded him that a new duke should meet and be met by others
in their slice of society.
“You hardly need my approval, Ollie.”
“I need more than that.”
If he meant money, Seb could help. Cousin Geoffrey
and his steward maintained the estate well over the years, investing wisely and
spending with restraint. Sebastian had met with the estate’s steward once since
arriving at Roxbury and emphasized his desire to match his predecessor’s good
fiscal sense.
“We should discuss a settlement of some kind.”
Waving away Seb’s words, Ollie stood and strode to
the window, looking out on one of Roxbury’s gardens, perfectly manicured and
daubed with color by the first blooms of spring.
Oliver Treadwell had never been a hard man to read.
Seb knew him to be intelligent, but he used none of his cleverness for
artifice. A changeable man, Ollie blew hot and cold with his passions, but he
expressed himself honestly. Now Seb sensed something more. Another emotion
undercut the giddiness he’d expressed about his most recent heart’s desire.
His friend seemed to fall into contemplation of the
scenery and Sebastian stood to approach, curious about what had drawn Ollie’s
attention. The sound of Ollie’s voice stopped him short, the timbre strangely
plaintive, almost childlike.
“She says her father won’t allow her to marry until
her older sister does. Some strange rule he’s devised to make Harriet
miserable.”
It sounded like an unreasonable expectation to
Sebastian. At two and twenty, Pippa found contentment in pursuing her studies
and political causes. She’d indicated no desire to take any man’s name. Never
mind the way she looked at Oliver. If they had a younger sister, the girl might
have a long wait to wed if some ridiculous rule required Pippa to do so first.
Then again, not all women were as reticent to marry as Pippa.
“Does this elder sister have any prospects?”
Ollie’s whole body jolted at Seb’s question and he
turned on him, smile wide, blue eyes glittering.
“She has more suitors than she can manage, but she’s
not easily snared. I assure you she’s just as beautiful as Hattie, with golden
hair …”
“Yes, yes. Eyes of emerald or sapphire or amethyst.”
Oliver tugged on his ear, a frown marring his
enthusiastic expression. “Well, she is lovely. Truly. You should meet her.”
A sickening heaviness sank in his gut at the
realization of Oliver’s real purpose for their urgent meeting.
“You’re very determined to convince me, Oliver.”
Ollie sighed wearily, a long gusty exhale, before
sinking down into a chair again. “You only call me Oliver when you’re cross.
Won’t you hear me out?”
Sebastian had a habit of counting. Assigning numbers
to the objects and incidents in his life gave him a satisfying sense of order
and control. Not quite as much satisfaction as conquering a maddening equation,
but enough to make the incidents he couldn’t control—like the small matter of
inheriting a title and a home large enough to house a hundred—more bearable.
He wished he’d counted how many times he’d heard
those same words—“Won’t you hear me out?”—from Ollie. Whatever the number, it
would certainly be high enough to warn him off listening to the man’s mad
schemes again.
“All right, Ollie. Have it out then.”
“Do you never consider finding yourself a wife?”
“No.”
“You must.”
“Must I? Why? I have quite enough to occupy me.”
Ollie took on a pensive air and squinted his left
eye. “The estate seems to be in good order, and you’ve given up your post at
the university. Pippa has her own pursuits.” He glanced again at the high
ceiling over their heads. “Won’t you be lonely in these grand, empty rooms,
Bash?”
Sentiment? That was how Ollie meant to convince him?
Seb had put away sentimentality ten years before, dividing off that part of
himself so that he could move forward with the rest of his life. If its power
still held any sway, he would have opened the letter in his waistcoat pocket
the day it arrived.
“I will manage, Ollie.”
And how would a woman solve anything? In Seb’s
experience, women either wreaked havoc on a man’s life, or filled it with noise
and color and clever quips, like his mother and sister. Either option would
allay loneliness, but he did not suffer from that affliction. Sentimental men
were lonely. Not him. Even if he did live in a house with ceilings so tall his
voice echoed when he chattered to himself.
He narrowed his eyes at Ollie, and his friend sat up
in his chair, squared his shoulders, and tipped his chin to stare at Seb
directly.
“She’s the eldest daughter of a marquess, Bash, and
much more aware of the rules of etiquette among the wealthy and titled than you
are.”
“Then we won’t have much in common.”
Ollie groaned. “She would be a fine partner, a
formidable ally in this new life you’ve taken on.”
“No.”
Denial came easily, and he denounced Ollie’s mad
implication that the two of them should marry sisters from the same family. But
reason, that damnable voice in his head that sounded like his father, contradicted
him.
At two and thirty, he’d reached an age for
matrimony, and with inherited property and a title came the duty to produce an
heir. No one wanted Roxbury and the Wrexford dukedom to pass to another distant
cousin. If he had any doubts about his need for a wife, he was surrounded by
women who’d happily remind him. His aunt, Lady Stamford, had sent a letter he’d
found waiting for him the day he’d arrived at Roxbury suggesting that marriage
was as much his duty as managing the estate. Pippa also dropped hints now and
then that having a sister-in-law would be very nice indeed.
Ollie had yet to multiply the bride-taking
encouragement, but he was making a fine effort at rectifying the oversight.
“Acquiring a dukedom is a vast undertaking.” Ollie
stretched out his arms wide to emphasize the vastness of it all. “Why not have
a lovely woman by your side in such an endeavor?”
“I didn’t acquire it, Oliver. It passed to me.” He
loathed his habit of stating the obvious.
A lovely woman by his side. The notion brought a
pang, equal parts stifled desire and memory-soaked dread. He’d imagined it
once, making plans and envisioning the life he’d create with the woman he
loved. But that was all sentiment and it had been smashed, its pieces left in
the past. Now practicality dictated his choices. He spared emotion only for his
family, for Pippa and Ollie.
Ollie watched him like a convicted man awaiting his
sentence.
His friend’s practical argument held some appeal. A
marquess’s daughter would know how to navigate the social whirl, and Seb liked
the notion of not devoting all of his own energy to tackling that challenge. He
might even find a moment to spare for mathematics, rather than having to
forfeit his life’s work entirely to take on the duties of a dukedom.
And it would give Ollie a chance at happiness.
Perhaps this younger daughter of Lord Clayborne’s would be the woman to inspire
constancy in Ollie, and Seb might assist his friend to achieve the family and
stability he’d lost in childhood.
Seb spoke on an exhaled sigh. “I suppose I do need a
wife.” And there he went stating the obvious again.
Oliver turned into a ten-year-old boy before his
eyes, as giddy as a pup. If the man had a tail, he’d be wagging it furiously.
He jumped up and reached out to clasp Seb on the shoulder.
“Just meet Lady Katherine, Seb. See if you suit.
That’s all I ask.” It wasn’t quite all he asked, but Seb had learned the
futility of quibbling with a giddy Oliver.
A marquess’s daughter? Lady Katherine sounded like
just the sort of woman a duke should seek to marry. Seb could contemplate
marriage as a practical matter, but nothing more.
Would he ever feel more?
He hadn’t allowed himself an ounce of interest in a
woman in ten years, not in a lush feminine figure, nor in a pair of fine eyes,
not even in the heady mix of a woman’s unique scent under the notes of some
floral essence.
“I think you’ll enjoy London during the season.”
Ollie couldn’t manage sincerity when uttering the declaration. His mouth
quivered and he blinked one eye as if he’d just caught an irritating bit of
dust.
Seb doubted he’d enjoy London during the crush of
the social season. As a Cambridge man raised in a modest home in the
university’s shadow, he’d enjoyed occasional jaunts to London but had always
been content to return to his studies. As he opened his mouth to say as much to
Ollie, Pippa strode into the room and drew their attention to the doorway.
She’d changed into one of the day dresses their aunt
insisted she choose for the upcoming season, though Pippa signaled her disdain for
the flouncy yellow creation by swiping down the ruffles that kept popping up on
her chest and around her shoulders.
“Luncheon is laid in the morning room. Are you
joining us, Oliver?”
Ollie stared wide-eyed at Pippa a moment and then
turned to Seb.
“We’re almost finished here,” Seb assured her.
“Ollie and I will join you momentarily.”
She nodded but offered the still speechless Ollie a
sharp glance before departing.
After a moment, Ollie found his voice. “I’ve never
seen her so …”
“Irritated?”
“Feminine.”
Seb took a turn glaring at Ollie. The man had just
been thrilled at the prospect of a match with Lady Harriet. He had no business
noticing Pippa’s femininity, especially after failing to do so for over a dozen
years.
“She chose a few new dresses.” Seb cleared his
throat to draw Ollie’s attention.
“It’s odd,” Ollie said, his face still pinched in
confusion. “I’ve known Pippa most of my life and never truly thought of her as
a woman.”
His friend’s words put Seb’s mind at ease, but he
suspected Pippa wouldn’t find them nearly as heartening.
“Ollie, let’s return to the matter at hand.”
“Yes, of course.” Ollie rubbed his hands together
and grinned, the matter of Pippa quickly forgotten. “Will you come to the
Clayborne ball and meet Lady Katherine?”
“I will.” Meeting the woman seemed a simple
prospect. Practical. Reasonable. A perfectly logical decision in the
circumstances.
“If you’re still planning on presenting Pippa this
season, by all means, bring her along too,” Ollie added. “Why leave her to ramble
this house alone?”
Pippa preferred to spend her days at Cambridge where
she’d been studying mathematics for much of the previous year. Yet Seb felt the
pull of his aunt’s assertion. His sister should have a London season, or at
least spend some time among London society. He wished to open as many doors for
Pippa as he could. Give her choices and options. If his title meant his sister
might be more comfortably settled in life, all the better.
“She’s not convinced of the appeal of a London
season.” Seb worried neither of them was equipped for it either. Gowns and
finely tailored clothing aside, they didn’t possess the aristocratic polish
others would expect of a duke and his sister.
Ever undaunted, Ollie grinned. “Then you must
convince her.”
Seb lifted his gaze to the ceiling, following the
tracery, lines in perfect symmetry, equidistant and equal in length, forming a
perfect whole. The geometric beauty of the design melted a bit of the tension
in his shoulders. Still, he doubted the propriety of allowing his sister to
attend a ball when she’d not yet formally come out. And, most importantly, he
feared Pippa was unprepared for the sort of attention she would encounter in
London.
Pippa unprepared? She’d fence him into a corner for
even entertaining the notion.
“Very well. We’ll both attend, but I make no
promises regarding Lady Katherine.”
He’d accept the invitation in order to give Pippa
her first glimpse of a proper London ball, meet this marquess’s daughter, and
do what he could to assist Ollie’s cause. But marrying Lady Katherine was
another matter entirely. He’d only ever intended to marry one woman and that
had gone so spectacularly pear-shaped, he wasn’t certain he could bring himself
to propose ever again.
About
the Author:
Fueled by Pacific Northwest coffee and inspired by
multiple viewings of every British costume drama she can get her hands on,
Christy Carlyle writes sensual historical romance set in the Victorian era. She
loves heroes who struggle against all odds and heroines who are ahead of their
time. A former teacher with a degree in history, she finds there’s nothing
better than being able to combine her love of the past with a die-hard belief
in happy endings.
Website: http://www.christycarlyle.com/
Tour
giveaway
3 ebook copies of Book 1, One Scandalous Kiss
Thanks for featuring me on your blog! :)
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