Regency Vows: A Gentleman 'Til Midnight / The Trouble with Honour / An Improper Arrangement / A Wedding By Dawn / The Devil Takes a Bride / A Promise by Daylight

His hands ached with the need to curl around Holliswell’s lapels and slam the man against the lamppost behind him. Instead, he tightened his lips. “Only the daughter of an earl, I would imagine.”

“I’m not sure I like what you’re suggesting, Taggart.”

“I think you like it a great deal.” It was no stretch of the imagination to think that once Holliswell had the title he coveted, he might decide his daughter could make a more advantageous match than either himself or Adkins—although how a marriage to Adkins could be considered advantageous for Clarissa was beyond comprehension.

“I can’t imagine the cause is lost,” Holliswell said. “There is plenty about Katherine to exploit. You know that as well as I do. God knows how many Moors she’s taken between her legs, and I hear she’s got a half-Moor whelp as proof. She can’t possibly imagine society will accept her this way. In fact, having her here may work to your advantage in gathering more votes.”

For God’s sake, Nick didn’t want to exploit anyone. He just wanted this bloody business over with. “If you believe that, you’re delusional. I’ve already heard of half a dozen men lining up to propose marriage.”

“Marriage.” Holliswell’s eyes narrowed, and Nick watched him consider how quickly such a turn of events could change everything. “It would have to be someone powerful enough that the Lords would not possibly consider divesting him of his newly acquired assets. She’ll not find anyone of that stature desperate enough to take on such a baggage.”

“Perhaps,” Nick said. “And perhaps not. I’ve heard she made a successful debut at Deal’s and again last night at Lady Carroll’s. She may find someone yet.”

“A successful debut indeed—with your brother, in the shadows of the shrubbery.”

“Watch what you’re implying, Holliswell.”

“I witnessed their intimacy with my own eyes,” he sneered.

It was a lie. Wasn’t it? “It’s nothing to me if he’s tupping her,” Nick said, though it was hardly the truth. If she was more to James than just a welcoming commodity—if James got it in mind to marry her—then this damned business with Holliswell would be for nothing.

“Isn’t it?” Holliswell said meanly. “If that’s the way the wind blows, you’ve got a bigger job ahead of you than either of us expected.”

He felt a little sick, both at the idea of Katherine Kinloch becoming connected to Croston and the prospect of working against James. It grated hard to go against his older brother, especially after believing him lost. From what he’d heard, James had been publicly acknowledging her as his savior. Much more of that, and the bill’s cause would be lost anyhow.

“I will do what I can,” Nick bit out. “But I fear the tide will soon turn, and no effort to stop it will be successful.” Especially if James was tupping her. But if the choice was Clarissa’s future or Katherine Kinloch’s, he would do what had to be done.

He reminded himself that such a woman had no business acceding to a title in her own right. But for chrissake, he was starting to wish he wasn’t the one leading the charge to strip it from her.

* * *

THE INVITATIONS BEGAN to arrive before Katherine got out of bed. By the time she was ready to dress, there were twelve.

Winston. Hardly a surprise.

Werrick. Cashen. Naturally.

The number of invitations might have been a sign of spectacular success, but...

Marston, Obbs, Abnersthwaite. Known for their bad luck at the gaming tables, Phil had said.

Blaine. Nicklesdale. Estates mortgaged to the hilt, Honoria had said.

Robert Prentiss? The greedy-eyed baronet?

And three more whose names she didn’t recognize, but the quality of the paper said everything she needed to know about the state of their finances. Good God. They actually believed she might subjugate herself to them in marriage and put Dunscore at their disposal.

Her maid appeared in the doorway to the bedchamber. “Which gown shall I prepare, your ladyship?”

Katherine tossed the invitations on the dressing table and went to her trunk. The only thing these men wanted more than her in their beds was Dunscore in their coffers.

“None, thank you.” She unlatched the lid and snatched up a pair of her old trousers. “I shall dress myself this morning.”

“Very good, your ladyship.” The maid’s wide-eyed look said she thought it anything but good.

“But I shall want the pale green this afternoon, and the deep blue for tonight,” she added. The deep blue, with its shimmering silk and its revealing cut. Because there was plenty of support yet to be gathered, and she was perfectly capable of exploiting their lust for votes. But marriage? She would see them in hell first.

“Very good, your ladyship.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and left.

This morning, however, she would do as she pleased. The familiar clothing she’d worn aboard the Possession settled around her like a shield, and she smiled at herself in the glass as she slid her cutlass through her sash. Wouldn’t it be satisfying to arrive at Vauxhall tonight dressed like this?

Satisfying, yes. Helpful? Definitely not. Katherine sighed at her reflection.

She grabbed up the invitations and went downstairs to study Papa’s ledgers. By the time dinner was to be served, seventeen had arrived. Dobbs had just delivered the eighteenth invitation when Captain Warre strode into the library.

“His lordship the Earl of Croston to see you,” Dodd said from the doorway, but Captain Warre had already reached the desk, looking windblown and strained, with dark circles beneath his eyes. The mouth that had burned so hotly was set in a grim line.

“Have you heard the news?” he asked.

“What news?” She stood and faced him across the desk, wishing she didn’t remember last night’s kiss quite so well.

“The second reading has passed. The committee meets on Wednesday next.”

Wednesday. “That only gives us six days.”

“Your mathematical skill is far better developed than your sense of fashion.” His gaze raked over her. “For God’s sake, what do you plan to do if you receive a caller—invite them to sit on the floor and smoke a hookah?”

Six days. All the flirtations in the world couldn’t win enough support in six days. Could it?

“I rather thought I might call for tea.” She tossed the stack of invitations in his direction. “It would seem my company is in high demand. But if these are any indication, any callers I receive will be proposing more than conversation. I’ve ordered Dodd to burn any more that arrive.”

At that precise moment, Dodd returned carrying a card on his silver tray. “Lord Ingraham to see you, your ladyship.”

“Ingraham.” Last night’s conversation in the arbor sprang to life. He thought he would marry her and open their marriage bed to the public, did he?

“Please tell him her ladyship is unavailable,” Captain Warre instructed.

“And have him return later?” Katherine scoffed. No. She would deal with this immediately. She strode out from behind the desk and headed for the door. Thirty seconds would be all she needed to take care of Lord Ingraham.

She found him waiting by the door in the entrance hall wearing a ridiculous pale blue coat embroidered with bright yellow leaves. “I am only accepting marriage proposals in writing at this time, Lord Ingraham,” she told him before she was halfway across the hall. “If you’d care to send yours, I shall put it with the rest. Be sure to include the exact amount of your debt, of course.” She stopped directly in front of him. “Oh, yes—and the number of your friends you will expect me to entertain in our marriage bed.” She gave him what she hoped was her most feral smile.

Ingraham’s startled eyes dropped to her feet, paused on her cutlass and shot back to her face. “Good God.”

Behind her, Captain Warre’s tightly bemused voice carried across the hall. “Left you speechless, has she, Ingraham?”

“Croston.” Lord Ingraham looked past her, then back. “Lady Dunscore. I—” He paused, then smiled and bowed. “Certainly not. Not speechless a’tall. Though I can see that you are otherwise occupied, so with your permission, I shall take my leave and return at another time.”

If he returned again, she would run him through before he crossed the threshhold. “You may state your business now, Lord Ingraham, and eliminate the need for a future visit.” Beside her, Captain Warre’s animosity radiated off him like heat off a ship’s deck in summer.

Lord Ingraham’s smile turned brittle. “I see. Well, naturally, my business isn’t pressing. A mere social call. Perhaps you would consider saving me a dance at the Rogersfield ball next week?”

“I will give it my careful consideration.”

“Good day, then, madam. Croston.”

The moment he was gone, Captain Warre turned on her. “He’ll have your eccentricity spread across all of London before noon.”

“And by midnight, my breasts will have them all trailing after me regardless. Or have you forgotten our plans for Vauxhall already?”

“Being hotheaded and impulsive can gain you nothing.”

“Encouraging the notion that I am available to debtors and wastrels can gain me nothing. But forgive me, Captain, if I did not handle Ingraham precisely the way you would have told me.” She returned to the library and resumed her place behind Papa’s desk. “Who are the committee members?”

Captain Warre took up the invitations and leafed through them while he told her the names.

It was no surprise that several names matched those on some of the invitations. “I particularly enjoyed the Duke of Winston’s invitation,” she said. “What a delight to hear he will chair the committee. Do you suppose he’s especially proud of the luxurious cushions in his carriage, or could there be another reason for his efforts to assure me of their comfort?”

Captain Warre’s lips curved like a scratch in ice. “Apparently the man has no care for his particulars.” He paused. “I shall deal with Winston.”

“I can’t imagine how, without giving the impression the only carriage cushions I’ll be experiencing are yours.”

His eyes shot off the page and met hers, blazing. A pulse leaped in the base of her throat, but it was too late to yank the words back.

“Six days is an eternity in the world of the ton,” he told her. “Reputations have been made and broken in less—depending, of course, on one’s behavior.”

“Of course.” The time she’d already spent in London felt like an eternity.

Dodd appeared in the doorway once more with his damnable silver tray. “Your ladyship, Viscount Fenley—”

“Tell Fenley she’s not here!”

Katherine raised a brow at Captain Warre’s explosion. “Yes, Mr. Dodd. Please send him away,” she managed evenly. She could not offend every member of the Lords, no matter how little they cared about offending her. A possessive light glowed at the edges of Captain Warre’s anger, and a little flutter winged through her belly. She ignored it. “Tonight there is Vauxhall. Tomorrow night I shall attend the theater at your sister’s suggestion. I have more than half a mind not to go, as I have the distinct impression she is among those who believe I should take a husband.”

“Which, naturally, you have no intention of doing.”

A thin edge in his tone gave her pause. “Is that a solution you advocate, Captain?”

He tossed the invitations on the desk and exhaled. “I despise the theater. What a debacle this is.”

The nonanswer made her a little sick. “A debacle that could be solved if I marry?” she pressed carefully.

“I’ll not waste time discussing a subject that has no grounding in reality. I am well aware that you will see Holliswell seated at the head of Dunscore’s table before you will tie yourself down in marriage to keep it.”

His words hit their mark, and a cold, awful chill snaked its way across her skin. She thought of Mr. Allen, father’s solicitor, and made herself voice the unthinkable. “Could it be possible that marriage is the only solution?”

“There is never an ‘only’ solution. I shall be at Westminster again today taking up your cause. Let us hope I meet with receptive minds.”

He looked exhausted, frustrated and patently unenthusiastic. He didn’t want to go to Westminster—she could see that much. But he would go because of his guilt.

“I appreciate your efforts,” she told him, catching herself—and him—by surprise.

He looked at her a moment, then turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t like that the committee will meet so soon.”

“What could it mean?”

“Anything.”

Please keep trying, she almost said. But Captain Warre had seen enough of her vulnerability. He would not see more. “But this nonsense can still be stopped before a third reading,” she said.

“I’d hoped to stop it before it got this far.”

“Perhaps the quickest way is to accept the duke’s invitation, after all, if he is to chair the committee,” she scoffed, to hide her fear.

He spun on his heel, leaned across the desk and grabbed her chin in his fingers before she had time to think. “You’ll not whore yourself for Dunscore,” he bit out. “I won’t allow it.”

“A joke, Captain.”

His fingers burned into her skin. His eyes burned into her, too—hot and hungry, dropping to her mouth. Her breath turned shallow.

“Some topics don’t lend themselves to jest,” he said.

A movement in the doorway caught her eye. It was Miss Bunsby, retreating into the corridor. Captain Warre released her chin suddenly and backed away.

Katherine left him standing there and went to see what was wrong.

“One of the upstairs maids let slip that his lordship was here,” Miss Bunsby said in a hushed tone, “and now Lady Anne refuses to do anything until she sees him. I’ve tried to distract her with her doll, her beads, even a game of draughts, but she won’t be swayed. She’s raising a terrible fuss.”

Dearest Anne. Katherine cursed under her breath.

“I tried telling her his lordship was likely in a great hurry, but she is adamant that he will see her.”

“Tell her Captain Warre has gone,” Katherine whispered. Guilt clawed at her, but nurturing Anne’s attachment to Captain Warre would only break her heart in the long run. “By the time you return upstairs it will likely be true.”

Miss Bunsby’s gaze suddenly shifted past Katherine’s shoulder. Captain Warre stood in the doorway.

“Who are you telling I’ve gone?”

A small voice drifted from the upstairs balcony. “Captain Warre? Captain Warre, are you here?”

“Anne!” Katherine rushed to the entrance hall just in time to see Anne’s groping hands find the rail at the top of the stairs. Panic exploded in her chest. “Anne, stop!” She flew up the stairs with Miss Bunsby on her heels.

“Lady Anne, you mustn’t leave your rooms alone,” Miss Bunsby told her firmly. “It isn’t safe.”

“But I heard his voice!” Anne cried as Katherine pried her away from the railings. “He will see me, Mama. I know he will! Captain Warre!”

“Hush, now,” Katherine scolded, watching Captain Warre take the stairs with a grim mouth and measured precision. “Do you remember our rule about you going on deck? You must always be with someone. Always.”

“But I heard his voice!” Anne’s lip began to tremble, and Katherine’s heart squeezed hard.

“I’m here, Anne,” Captain Warre said, reaching the top of the stairs.

“Captain Warre!” Dearest Anne—heart of her heart and soul of her soul, with her olive skin, black hair and exotic Barbary eyes—threw her arms toward him with delight. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re here!”

He lifted her away from Katherine with a hundred questions in his eyes, daring her to object. “What’s all this fuss?”

“I’ve missed you,” Anne said, patting his shoulders and winding her arms around his neck.

His arms tightened around her. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“And I miss the ship. Mama says we can’t go back, but I want to. I want to so much! I hate London. Millie went away, and my dresses are stiff and tight, and it smells bad all the time.” Her pouting lip trembled, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

A familiar, strangling helplessness closed around Katherine’s throat.

“Well, I won’t deny the smell,” Captain Warre said. “But your dress is lovely. You look like a little princess.”

“Mr. Bogles is locked in Mama’s dressing room because he climbed the drapes in my bedchamber and they tore,” came Anne’s muffled voice. “He’s been very bad.”

“I don’t suppose he’s used to being inside a house. But surely something good has happened since you’ve been in London.”

“No. Nothing.”

“Oh, I can’t believe that,” he said doubtfully, and began to question Anne in detail as he started toward Anne’s rooms. By the time he set her on her bed they’d come up with four good things that had happened in London.

Katherine watched him brush Anne’s hair from her face with the same hands that had directed men to fire at the Merry Sea, and a deep yearning curled around her heart and squeezed.

* * *

HE WAS SINKING.

James stretched out on his bed, fully clothed, and stared up at the brown drapery while his valet fidgeted nearby.

“Your lordship, shall I—”

“Leave me. I shall take care of it.”

“Your shoes—”

“Will be fine. That will be all until I’m ready to dress for the evening, Polk. Thank you.”

A few more fidgets, a long hesitation and Polk left him in blessed solitude. The canopy’s fringe hung lifelessly, more beige than gold in the muted afternoon light.

James breathed in as much air as his lungs would hold and held it. Held it. Held it. Exhaled slowly. Inhaled again. Exhaled.

And wished, to his shame, that he had informed Katherine about the committee in a note. He could still feel Anne’s small arms winding a strangling sense of responsibility around his neck, even as his mind raced to think of something—anything—he might send her to add to her list of good things about London.

Katherine had been prepared to lie to keep him from Anne. That fact rankled more than anything. He pushed her from his mind, only to have her reappear, trickling inside him the way water seeped through a hull that needed fresh tar.

He’d lost control last night at Lady Carroll’s. It was inevitable that he would. A devil inside him had driven him to follow her into that arbor, knowing damned well what would happen. Wanting it to happen. He was no better than any of those whoremongers Honoria had dredged up.

Worse, in fact. Because he could see the smoke and the flames, the listing Merry Sea, the bloodthirsty corsairs wreaking terror on board. He could hear the screams. Smell the gunpowder. He knew what she’d gone through, how terrified she must have been. And still it didn’t stop the fire in his blood every time he saw her.

He needed to forget about the captain who studied the horizon with a practiced eye and knew when a line should be snubbed or cast loose and threatened disembowelment without batting an eye. He needed to forget about the woman who turned her face to the sun while the breeze molded shimmering Ottoman textiles to her body and toyed with the ends of her hair.

He didn’t want to see any of them. Not the frightened girl, not the shrewd captain and definitely—very definitely—not the woman. He didn’t want to care whether she married. Whom she married. He didn’t want to care if she bedded every damned lord in the House. He was damned tired of caring about her.

He stared at the underneath side of the canopy above him. If she were here now... God. He felt himself grow hard and tried to shove the thought away, but it was too late.

He rolled over and groaned into the mattress. A month ago, he’d thought only of escaping the sea. Now the thing he needed to escape was her.

How in God’s name would he find her a husband when he couldn’t stand the thought of another man touching her because he wanted to touch her so damned badly himself? Something had to change. Immediately.

He breathed into the bedding, and an idea resurfaced.

Maybe— No.

But—

God. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought of it before. Planned on it, even.

He lay there, perfectly still, while the idea came to life in his mind: a bride. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t need one eventually. Beginning the search now could be just the thing.

The right kind of bride could divert his attention. Cool his misplaced lust for a woman he as good as condemned to slavery and ruination. Let him do his duty, and give him a new sense of purpose. Give him something to think of instead of Captain Kinloch.

The idea propelled him out of bed, and he paced to the window. The right kind of bride—

Yes.

Yes, it was time. Past time. He would find a girl who’d been on the shelf so long she’d given up hope. Someone with the right skills to look after the household at Croston, who would happily give him an heir.

A girl who was thoughtful and quiet.

Who wouldn’t even know how to hold a cutlass.

A young lady who was biddable, and who would never, ever argue with him.

Yes. He would find Katherine a husband, and himself a wife. Then, finally, he would go to Croston and forget he’d ever set foot on a ship named Possession.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

JAMES PUSHED THROUGH the crowd at Vauxhall that night, for once separated from Katherine, while the orchestra played a hellishly cheerful piece that only darkened his mood.

All of London had come to the garden tonight, and Honoria was determined to introduce her to every last one of them. He’d spent the past hour doing what he could on her behalf, but now he had other plans.

He worked his way through the crowd, pretending he didn’t hear the calls of well-wishers eager to foolishly proclaim his heroics. Let them regale each other with tales. He flexed his hands at his sides to ease the tension curling inside him. With so many people in attendance, this was the perfect opportunity to set his new plan into motion.

The crowd surged and eddied like a strong current through a strait, illuminated by countless globe lamps hanging above. He spotted two old friends, Vincroft and Berston, and headed straight for them. Neither one had married yet. Without a doubt they would have their fingers on the pulse of the marriage mart. Besides that, he needed liquor.

“You look like you’re about to do someone a harm, Croston,” Vincroft said when James finally reached them.

James grunted. “I’m going after a drink.”

“Do allow me!” Berston said jovially, already moving away. “Back in a moment!”

Through a break in the crowd a woman with near-black hair caught his eye. His pulse surged, but it wasn’t Katherine. Thank God. He flexed his fingers and forced himself to study the crowd in search of matrimonial possibilities.

“Looking for someone?” Vincroft asked.

“Mmm,” he replied. “Female, marriageable, on the shelf.”

“Good God! Don’t let that be known, or you’ll be crushed to death before anyone can finish celebrating the fact that you’re alive.”

“Forgot to mention mild-mannered, biddable and quiet.” Or shrewd, fiery and combative, a voice taunted. The essence of Katherine sizzled through him. The idiot between his legs got a brilliant idea about finding her and taking a walk down one of the gardens’ darker paths and—

“Here you go.” Berston returned with a glass of arrack. “Ought to do the trick.”

James downed half the glass in one swallow.

“They all fit that bill when they’re marriageable,” Vincroft snorted. “Don’t find out the truth till afterward.”

“Ye gads,” Berston said. “Who’s getting married?”

“Croston here. Gone mad, if you ask me.”

Bloody hell. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“So sorry!” Berston offered an expression that was both resignation and pity. “Got to be done eventually, I suppose. Think about it myself if it wasn’t bad for my health. Hives and all that, every time I hear the word matrimony.”

James managed a laugh. At least Berston hadn’t changed. “You’ll suffer through the hives unless you want that pasty nephew of yours to inherit,” he said.