Rake in the Regency Ballroom: The Viscount Claims His Bride / The Earl's Forbidden Ward

‘What right do you have to make such a demand of me?’ Philippa flicked him a tight glance.

Lucien’s eyes flashed. ‘What right? We have been together for years.’

‘We are hardly married, Lucien,’ Philippa warned. They’d not explicitly talked in such terms before, although it would be unfair to say the issue had not arisen in other ways in the last year.

‘Perhaps we should be. Married, that is,’ Lucien said coldly.

‘Is that a proposal? Your lack of enthusiasm makes it rather hard to tell,’Philippa shot back. Damn Valerian for this, Philippa thought hotly. Lucien’s proposal, if one could call it that, was all his doing. He had to come rushing in and wreck everything with hot kisses and knowing caresses, making her remember the possibilities.

Philippa put down her napkin and rose, leaving her toast untouched, but it didn’t matter. Her stomach couldn’t tolerate a bite of food now. ‘I regret to inform you that I have no intention of accepting a proposal articulated with such lacklustre ardour. It bodes ill for the marriage.’ She tinged her voice with exaggerated ennui. The sooner she was out of the room the better. She hoped she made the door before she gave full vent to her temper.

Lucien rose, the glacial calm that usually accompanied his demeanour, melting at her comment. ‘My displays of “ardor” have been quite acceptable to you right up until St Just began stealing kisses on the balcony right under my nose.’

Philippa stiffened. How could he have known? But to accuse him of spying on her would mean admitting he had the right of it. She turned to face Lucien before sweeping into the hallway. ‘You’ve shown yourself in a poor light this morning, Lucien. Jealousy does not become you.’

Wrapped in a heavy wool cloak against the damp weather, Philippa stormed out to the gardens. No one else was about in such inclement weather. She was glad for it. She would make terrible company. She would be hard pressed to behave politely when all her thoughts were focused on less than polite behaviour.

Valerian and Lucien were worse than two stallions in season fighting over a mare and now Lucien had proposed, no doubt prompted by his sense of honour and apparently the belief that she needed protection from the likes of Valerian. In the three years of their association, Lucien had never once pressed her for a discreet affair. There had been nothing beyond a few private, dry kisses, a gentleman’s touch on the dance floor or helping her in and out of carriages. Nothing at all to compare with Valerian’s very public seduction.

Lucien’s kisses were preludes to nothing. They inspired no wish to lose control, to cross over the boundaries of propriety. Valerian’s kisses lit a raging fire in her, forced her to abandon her grip on control. Valerian’s kisses were an invitation to decadence.

The very thought of Valerian’s audacious assumptions brought colour to her wind-whipped cheeks. Lucien was right. Valerian made no secret of his sensual habits. The differences between the two men could not be more clearly illustrated if she drew a line in the dirt. On one side there was Lucien with his icy good looks and restrained passions to match his rigid sense of honour. On the other, there was Valerian, all devil-dark hair and hot eyes, flouting honour and convention at every turn. If the disparities were so obvious, why did she hesitate?

The answer gnawed at her. She was no longer sure Lucien’s companionship would be enough for either of them. She was hard pressed to believe Lucien was happy with the dry affection that passed between them. Certainly, he must wish for more. Surely there must be another reason why he’d forgo physical pleasure. She wished she knew what he’d gain to make the sacrifice worthwhile. She could understand if he openly declared he needed to marry for money. But she did not appreciate hidden motivations. They were usually dark and dangerous and wrapped in lies.

Valerian leaned on his cue stick in the billiards room, pretending to watch Beldon take a shot. In reality, his gaze was fixed on a point just beyond Beldon’s shoulder, through the window. Philippa was walking in the garden, alone. He’d been disappointed to learn she and Canton were taking breakfast privately when he’d come downstairs late in the morning. He could imagine what they’d talked about. Canton was none too pleased with him.

Beldon cleared his throat. ‘Val, it’s your turn.’

‘So it is,’ Valerian returned, but his interest in the game had waned. ‘Beldon, would you mind if we finished our game later? I suddenly remember some pressing business I need to see to.’

Valerian didn’t stay long enough to let Beldon quiz him on his sudden business. He slowed his pace only when he neared Philippa. It wouldn’t do to appear the over-eager swain. She needn’t know he’d interrupted his billiards game to rush after her the moment he’d glimpsed her.

She looked lovely, her colour high and her hair less than perfect from the wind. Desire surged in him, raw and elemental like the weather. She turned and spotted him at the gate.

‘Nice day for a walk,’Valerian offered drily, striding towards her.

‘I found the house a bit stifling,’ Philippa said shortly, bending to study a dormant plant.

‘The house or our Mr Canton?’ Valerian pried shamelessly. ‘I heard the two of you were closeted together over breakfast. I hope he wasn’t angry about last night.’ The last was a lie.

‘You are too bold, St Just.’ Philippa straightened, her eyes flashing as they studied him. He liked the feel of her gaze on him. Let her look and see that he desired her.

‘But yes, Lucien has asked that I make our relationship clear to you.’

‘So to speed my departure,’Valerian mused aloud uncharitably.

‘Be fair, St Just. Lucien has done nothing to earn your enmity besides stand my friend.’

Valerian studied her. ‘Is he your friend? I did not know him from before. He must be a new friend.’

‘Why, of course he’s a friend and he’s perfectly acceptable. He’s the oldest son of a viscount with excellent prospects of his own. He’s not a new friend, not to me anyway. I’ve known him since John…’ she hesitated here and then corrected herself ‘…Cambourne’s death. He was with John the day of the accident and he’s been with me ever since.’ Her sharp tone had softened at the mention of her husband.

Valerian matched it with a quiet tone of his own. ‘Beldon mentioned the accident briefly. Cambourne lived a while afterwards,’ he prompted, liking the quiet intimacy that had sprung up between them.

Philippa turned bittersweet eyes on him, her gaze far away with her memories. ‘Lucien got him home and arranged for a physician, even though he was hurt himself. We stayed by John’s side for the next few days.’ She shook her head. ‘The doctor had known immediately that there would be no recovery. I was afraid to leave him out of fear that he would slip away the moment I was gone.’

Valerian took Philippa’s hand, stroking her knuckles with his thumb, pleased that she hadn’t snatched it away. A queer pang jabbed at him. He was both grateful that Philippa had cared for her husband and yet envious that those affections had been given to another. ‘You cared for the duke, then?’ he asked curiously, wanting to know the nature of the relationship she’d shared with Cambourne.

‘I grew fond of him. He was a good mentor to me and he denied me nothing. He let me use his wealth and his name to build a model school for miners’ children in the village. It’s the one the vicar is modelling his own school after. He was a good and tolerant man. I sincerely missed him when he was gone.’

‘But Lucien was there,’ Valerian prodded.

‘Yes. He helped with all the details of transferring the estates to me and to John’s heir. That can be tedious work and Beldon was so busy settling the Pendennys estate in those days it was a relief not to burden him with my worries as well.’ Philippa sighed.

The bastard knows how much she’s worth to the farthing. He’s had an intimate look at her holdings. The thought was unworthy, but it was the first one that came to mind. How convenient everything was for the man. That raised an alarm for Valerian. He no more believed in ‘conveniences’ than he believed in Beldon’s blasted ‘serendipity’. A man made his own luck. Lucien Canton appeared to have manufactured quite a lot of it.

Valerian’s talk with Philippa in the garden did not go unremarked. Mandeville Danforth let the length of curtain drop in front of the library windows. ‘Look at them, close as courters. He’s holding her hand, damn it. Canton, how could you let him upset things so quickly and so thoroughly? He’s turning her head.’

Lucien pierced the man with a cold stare. ‘I didn’t know he was coming. He and her brother arrived unannounced, much like yourself,’ he said pointedly. ‘How was I to know that he was more than her brother’s best friend?’

‘You could tell the minute he saw her,’ Danforth groused.

‘We all could tell. It’s amazing the house didn’t spontaneously combust. But by then it was too late. I could hardly expel him from the house. We have to be careful with Pendennys. We need his blunt. Where he invests, others will follow. Giving his friend the cold shoulder won’t help our cause, especially with Pendennys still sitting on the proverbial fence where the bank is concerned.’

Danforth huffed in concession to Lucien’s wisdom. ‘Winning the Dowager Duchess of Cambourne’s affections would be enough to bring her brother into the fold. It’s a bad time for a kink in the works. Did you read your father’s letter? I hope it was important enough for me to hare down here from London.’

Lucien felt some inward satisfaction that Danforth didn’t know the contents of the letter. The man was getting above himself to think he could scold a viscount’s son. He had not missed Danforth’s barb about the need to win Philippa’s affections. But Danforth was wrong to assume his only role in this scheme was to play the suitor and woo Lady Cam-bourne.

While the thought of finally having Philippa in his bed after all this time was pleasant enough, he’d invested the last three years of his life for a far more lucrative gambit than a roll in the ducal bed. He had an empire at stake.

Lucien gave Danforth a cold smile. ‘My father writes that the London investors are in place. We may go ahead and officially announce that the Provincial Bank of Truro is open for business, with you, of course, as the nominal head.’ It went unspoken between them the reasons for that choice. A viscount or his son might sit on an executive oversight board of a bank, particularly if the bank was in his own area of the country, but he would never overtly sully himself with such work as the daily running of the bank.

Danforth rubbed his hands together in delight. ‘I am glad to hear it.’

‘As am I. The sooner we can begin loaning funds to the smelting companies and the mining corporations, the sooner we can have our cartel.’

‘And the sooner we have our cartel, the sooner we control the market. Everyone will be in our pockets,’ Danforth remarked shrewdly.

‘Not just the market, but the world,’ Lucien said meaningfully. He didn’t expect Danforth to understand. The man’s financial acumen was daunting on a domestic scale, but he had yet to grasp the implications of the new British mining colonies springing up in the Bolivian and Argentine territories. That was Lucien’s gift to the venture—futuristic foresight.

His eyes strayed to the window. His foresight and exquisite planning would come to naught if he couldn’t control the Cambourne interests. The strength of his cartel and its ability to regulate tin and copper prices would be minimal if the Cambourne mines and other associated industries remained outside the cartel’s umbrella to compete against it with prices.

St Just was an unfortunate distraction, but not insurmountable. He would have to send to London for news about the returning viscount. With nine years in the diplomatic corps, there must be dirt on the man somewhere—real scandal beyond his rakish reputation with women.

Lucien had yet to meet a diplomat who couldn’t be bribed to shape foreign policy. Not that there was anything wrong with greasing palms. Lucien was man enough of the world to know it took a bit of well-placed oil to keep that world running smoothly. But Philippa was another sort altogether. She believed in ideals, like the miners’ school the late duke had let her open.

Lucien rather thought she’d take badly to the news that the dashing St Just was not only a womaniser—a fact openly known in certain London circles—but a man who’d been involved with darker dealings, selling ‘opportunities’, as it were, to become involved in the great British Empire for a price—things like rights to waterways or trade commodities. Those were things that quietly went to the highest bidders and not necessarily those who deserved them most. Such injustice would not sit well with Philippa.