An Inconvenient Beauty Read online

  The fact that he was drawn to her despite all the reasons he shouldn’t be was rather irritating.

  “Miss Breckenridge. I am Fred . . . er, Miss St. Claire’s cousin.” She brushed the ringlets off her cousin’s face with one hand while clutching Miss St. Claire’s limp fingers in the other.

  “I was unaware that she had such close relations.” And considering the amount of research he’d done on Miss St. Claire, that lack of knowledge was a bit disturbing. He knelt next to the settee. “She’s breathing easily. That’s a good sign.”

  Miss Breckenridge’s grin was almost impish. The playful look on such a beautiful face had Griffith shifting his shoulders beneath his well-tailored coat. “You have experience with this, then? A lot of girls faint at your feet during balls?”

  A returning grin spread across his face before he could stop it, and he ducked his head to hide his reaction. “No. I confess this is actually the first occurrence.” He raised his gaze back to hers. “I’ve sisters, though.”

  “And they are prone to fainting?”

  A small spurt of laughter escaped him at the very thought of his sisters having a fragile enough constitution to require a fainting couch in every room. “No. But some of their friends are.”

  “Hmm.” She turned her attention back to her cousin, though her lips remained curved in that teasing smile. “I imagine a handsome, unmarried brother in the vicinity made them even more so.”

  “Probably. Though my younger brother never seemed to find it too much of an inconvenience.” Griffith winced at the way the sentence sounded. It wasn’t that he thought himself unattractive—he was still in possession of his own hair and teeth, after all—but he’d always assumed his size and demeanor kept him from being handsome.

  “You were too busy being a duke to catch the swooning masses, then?” Her words sounded almost like laughter, sucking away tension Griffith hadn’t even known he’d been holding in his shoulders. It took a moment for him to realize what a relief it was that she wasn’t going to offer flattery and platitudes.

  His relief relaxed him enough to draw forth an answering grin. “Something like that.”

  The silence that fell this time was less awkward and more anticipatory as they waited for Miss St. Claire to awaken. It wasn’t lost on him that while he’d been floundering earlier to say a single complete sentence to his intended wife, conversation with the cousin had been easy, even without his putting in an effort.

  As disconcerting as that fact was, Griffith found himself craving that the conversation would return, because without it he had little to distract himself from watching her care for her cousin without regard for the disarray she was causing to her own pale yellow ensemble. The discarded glove was now being crushed beneath one of her feet as she pressed in closer to her cousin.

  Griffith slid the accessory free of its trap. “Is this your first Season?”

  “Yes. First time in London, even.” She brushed the hair back from Miss St. Claire’s face again.

  “Welcome to London, then, Miss Breckenridge.”

  She turned her head and her gaze clashed with his. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Unlike his siblings, Griffith remembered seeing his father and mother together. And when his mother remarried, there had been no doubt that she and the earl were completely devoted to each other’s health and happiness. While he was more than thankful that all of his siblings had found loving and happy marriages, none of them had taken the easy road to get there.

  More fool them.

  And since Griffith was determined to learn from their mistakes, he listened to the warning signs that told him he found this vibrant young lady a little too intriguing. He turned his attention back to Miss St. Claire. By applying a little logic to the situation, he would have no problem finding love with someone who wouldn’t throw his life into utter chaos and put him through complete turmoil before finding his way to happiness. The key was not getting caught off guard. God had blessed him with a brain, and Griffith intended to use it.

  The maid returned, and Griffith rose to meet her and take the blanket. He snapped it open and draped it over Miss St. Claire and the settee, careful to keep his hands from touching her. Miss Breckenridge waved the smelling salts under Miss St. Claire’s nose.

  After a loud snuffling sound, her eyes blinked slowly open, but she made no move to get up until her gaze focused on Miss Breckenridge.

  “He’s haunting me, Bella. His ghost has come to fill me with guilt.”

  Maybe Griffith hadn’t done enough research after all.

  Miss Breckenridge scooted one hip onto the couch, crushing her dress in the process, and wrapped an arm around Miss St. Claire’s shoulders. “Shh, shh. We don’t have to talk about it now, but I’m sure there wasn’t a ghost.”

  “I miss him so much, Bella. My heart is making me see him places he can’t be.”

  While Miss Breckenridge tried to comfort and quiet her cousin, Griffith caught a nearby table to maintain stability. With all of his careful thoughts and calculations, there was one thing he hadn’t considered.

  That his woman of choice might already be in love with another.

  Isabella dipped her head and looked into Frederica’s eyes. Her cousin was talking nonsense, which wasn’t actually that unusual—except that right now they had an audience, a rather focused one. She refused to glance over at the duke, no matter how badly she wanted to. The last thing Freddie needed was to know this nervous collapse was being witnessed.

  “Freddie! Freddie, listen to me.” Isabella relaxed her shoulders as her cousin’s brown eyes finally seemed to be looking in Bella’s direction. “Good, good. Look at me. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Then why did I see him? Because I did. Arthur Saunderson was there.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” Hoping the duke possessed at least a modicum of discretion, Isabella settled more firmly onto the couch. “Arthur gave himself to the war effort two years ago. He’s not coming home. Your father showed you the letter, remember? The one about the battle? His regiment didn’t survive.”

  Frederica nodded and took a breath, shaky with unspent tears.

  “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to sit here for a few more moments, and then I’ll fix your hair and we’ll return to the ball. We must act as if nothing untoward has happened.”

  Freddie nodded.

  A slow movement on the edge of Isabella’s vision drew her attention, and she turned her head in time to see the duke slipping out of the room and pulling the door nearly closed behind him. Good man, that one. And probably one her uncle would want her to entice. A duke’s say would have a far-reaching impact, she was sure.

  Her concern for Frederica had caused her to drop the caution she’d been utilizing all night and speak as frankly as she was used to doing at home. Whatever potential conquest she might have had with the duke was probably lost. She couldn’t worry about that now, though.

  “I can’t go back out there,” Frederica whispered.

  Isabella sighed. Where was her quiet, confident cousin who lingered on the edge of ballrooms and didn’t begrudge Isabella the attention of men who’d ignored Frederica for years? “Are you the first woman to faint in a ballroom?”

  Freddie frowned. “No.”

  “No. In fact, you aren’t even the first one tonight. I saw another woman in the retiring room who had to be nearly carried in by her friends, so no one is going to think a thing of it. They are, however, going to have something to say about you being carried off by a duke and never returning.”

  Instead of having a bolstering effect, Isabella’s statement caused Freddie to lose what little color she’d managed to regain. “Carried off by a duke?”

  Bella winced. “You forgot that part? The Duke of Riverton caught you and carried you in here. But I’ve been with you the entire time, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Except for why the duke was talking to me in the first place.” She rose and began to
shake out the folds of her skirts. “Do you think he wanted an introduction to you?”

  “I think he wanted to ask you to dance.” Bella made a few tweaks to Freddie’s hair, which had survived the entire ordeal largely intact.

  Freddie snorted. “The Duke of Riverton doesn’t dance.”

  Isabella stopped her fussing and lifted her eyes in surprise. “At all?”

  “Not with females he isn’t closely related to.” Satisfied with her appearance, Freddie led the way to the door, her steps only slightly halting as she worried about the reception she’d find in the ballroom. Whether she was more worried that people would judge her or that they wouldn’t care at all was hard to say. Frederica’s acceptance of her near-wallflower status had been hard won, but it would probably still sting if no one cared that she’d fainted dead away in the middle of a ballroom.

  Outside the door, her slow steps halted entirely. “It can’t be.”

  Isabella wedged her way between Freddie and the door to ease into the hallway.

  “I told you I was seeing ghosts.”

  Bella blindly groped for her cousin’s hand and squeezed. “You’re not seeing ghosts.”

  There in the hallway—one shoulder leaned against the wall and hands clasped behind him as he stood in his bright red coat with the blue cuffs and collar of a Royal Dragoons officer—was a man who looked very much like Arthur Saunderson.

  He straightened from the wall and allowed his hands to fall to his sides, but he didn’t say anything. Simply stared, a flash of unreadable emotion in his eyes before the mask of soldierlike stoicism covered his face.

  Frederica shifted and slid one foot forward but didn’t take a step. Her mouth dropped open, but no sound came out.

  Isabella swung her gaze from one to the other. This was never how the meeting of long-lost lovers played out in books. There was usually crying, hugging—at the very least someone said hello. What was stopping these two? Shouldn’t Frederica be ecstatic about the confirmation of Arthur’s status change? Dead to living was rather a big deal.

  Unless the other man wasn’t actually Arthur. Isabella squinted at him. She’d never actually seen the man. Had only recently seen a small painting Frederica kept hidden in her dressing room. If she were to go by Frederica’s reaction, this man was definitely Arthur Saunderson or could pass for his twin brother.

  Someone needed to say something. Isabella pushed her way into the corridor, intent on getting one of them to acknowledge the other, but the nudge seemed to be all Freddie needed.

  “I haven’t married,” she blurted out.

  Isabella winced and cut her eyes to catch the man’s reaction. His eyes widened, and he swallowed hard enough to make his throat move.

  “They told me you were dead,” Frederica continued, the blockage on her tongue apparently dissolved. She dropped Isabella’s hand in order to wrap her fingers together near her heart. “Obviously you’re not. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.”

  Pale blue eyes widened, his mouth slacked open, and his chest expanded, as if he were bracing himself to speak something monumentally important or difficult. All sorts of possibilities swarmed Isabella’s mind. What if he hadn’t waited? What if he’d married? What if he’d been horribly injured and was even now walking around in imminent death?

  “Saunderson!” a voice barked down the corridor. “The colonel is waiting.”

  Beyond Arthur’s shoulder, in the shadows at the end of the long passage, stood an older soldier, his decorated uniform similar in style to Arthur’s.

  Arthur looked over his shoulder at the man and gave a single nod before turning back to Frederica. Isabella wasn’t even sure he’d noticed her presence yet. His eyes had been only for Freddie, even if they hadn’t looked very happy to see her. Of course, he hadn’t been living with the idea that she was dead for the past two years.

  He cleared his throat. “I—”

  “Lieutenant!” the older man barked again.

  Arthur pressed his lips together before spinning on his heel and marching down the corridor.

  Neither lady said anything until even the echoes of boots had disappeared.

  Finally, Isabella looked at Frederica. She was pale, even paler than she’d been when she fainted, but there was a firm set to her mouth and a tightness around her eyes that belied any idea of weakness or a recurrence of her earlier unconsciousness.

  Isabella swallowed. “What are you going to do?”

  Frederica pulled her gaze from the end of the hallway and blinked Isabella into focus. “Do?” She nodded her head in the direction Arthur had gone. “I’m going to marry Arthur.”

  Chapter 6

  The benefit of having close friends who took their responsibilities in Parliament seriously and family who enjoyed socializing was that at least once a year they all converged on London at the same time. Right now, however, Griffith wouldn’t have minded a little less diligence on their part. The crack of the billiard balls as they crashed into each other was less jarring than the speculative questions and glances he was currently being barraged with.

  “I understand waiting to see the girls settled, but why were you waiting on me?” Trent leaned over the table, his blond hair flopping over his forehead as he lined up his next shot. “There’s four years difference between us. You could have been setting yourself up for a long wait.”

  “Not with the way you stumbled into trouble, pup.” Anthony, Marquis of Raebourne, extended his cue to slide the marker over on his and Trent’s scoring line. While Anthony wasn’t technically family, he lived in the estate next to Griffith’s and had married Griffith’s ward. As far as Griffith was concerned, he counted.

  Trent shrugged with his regular good nature, the smile on his face a clear indication that, while he may have stumbled his way into a forced marriage, the couple hadn’t stayed distant from each other.

  In fact, it was Trent’s marriage that had convinced Griffith he could choose the woman he would fall in love with. Trent had barely known his wife when they married, so his options had narrowed to one if he wanted to build a family with the woman he loved. Griffith intended to take the same path, only he would choose who that woman would be instead of stumbling his way into it.

  “That’s rich, coming from you, Anthony.” Ryland stepped up to the table, head tilted to examine his possible shots through narrowed grey eyes. “Trent couldn’t get into as much trouble as you if he tried.”

  Anthony frowned, not caring for the reminder of his multiple youthful indiscretions, but the laughter of Colin McCrae, the husband of Griffith’s youngest sister, kept Anthony from scowling too darkly.

  Colin leaned against the wall, booted feet crossed at the ankles. “I’m less interested in his reasons for waiting and more interested in the logic behind his choice. Miss Frederica St. Claire? I’ve been mulling it over, and I honestly can’t see it.”

  Griffith glared at Ryland. “Is there anyone you didn’t tell?”

  One eyebrow rose as Ryland leaned on his stick. “Me? I didn’t tell anyone. Do recall who else was standing there when I made my prediction.”

  Miranda. Griffith’s lively, meddlesome sister. While he knew he could count on her discretion in public, all was fair when it came to family.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Miss St. Claire.” Apart from her predilection to faint at his appearance.

  “There’s not much right with her either. At least not for you.” Anthony took his shot, then stayed leaned over, hands braced against the billiard table. “Her dowry can’t be much above mediocre—not that you need it—and there’s no way you can convince me it’s her sparkling wit that’s drawn your attention. If it weren’t for her unfortunate nose she’d be utterly forgettable.”

  “Exactly.” Ryland crossed his legs at the ankle as he leaned against the wall. “He intends to slide her into his life without disrupting a thing. We’ll hardly know she’s here.”

  The quizzical looks being sent his way irritated Griffith. They made
him question his decision, something he refused to do. Ever. A duke couldn’t afford to second-guess himself. He pushed his cue forward, but his unease with the conversation had him putting a bit too much effort into the strike, and the ball pinged off the end of his cue and bounced into the rail.

  “Though your arguments don’t matter, I may have to change my mind.” Griffith straightened from the table, knowing his uncharacteristic declaration would keep anyone from mentioning his poor game play. “Her affections appear to be tied to another. An Arthur Saunderson.”

  Anthony frowned. “Who’s he?”

  “One of Baron Ebchester’s younger sons, would be my guess,” Colin said.

  Now the men’s wide eyes swung toward Colin.

  “You know him?” Anthony asked.

  “No. But if someone of Miss St. Claire’s ilk was going to encounter a man named Saunderson, that’s the most likely. Lord Ebchester owns the textile mills near Lord Pontebrook’s estate, and he has a passel of sons. Bought commissions for three of them.” Colin frowned. “I think one of them died a couple of years ago.”

  Well, that explained her talk of ghosts.

  Ryland gave a low whistle. “You don’t want to compete with a dead man.”

  “Whyever not?” Griffith rather thought such a man wasn’t going to be able to give him much competition, being dead and all.

  “Because he can’t do anything wrong.” Colin stood next to Trent, examining the table. “That’s a tough shot, there.”

  Trent lined up his cue and shot. The men watched the balls clank against each other before the red one plopped into a corner pocket. Even though he had to acknowledge the skill of that shot, Griffith didn’t like losing to his younger brother. It wasn’t quite as bad, though, as the idea of losing to a dead man, even if he had been a soldier.