Chapter Four
January 4, 1840
“Y ou just watch, I’ll easily—damn!”
“Not as easy as it looks, is it?” Leopold shook his head, beaming. “Remind me, what was it you were saying about how you were the best in the family at—”
“Thank you, I don’t need reminding,” growled Thomas.
The rain had poured all morning, making his early morning walk impossible. It was only now that he couldn’t have it that he realized just how greatly he depended on it.
He’d never much been one for exercise, inheriting the naturally lean Chance frame, so he had never paid much attention to the daily walk on which he took himself as part of his routine. Sometimes he even went out if the day was damp. But this morning, the rain had turned to sleet, which had turned to snow, and though it had warmed sufficiently to be rain again, he was no fool. He was not going out in that.
Something tightened around his torso. And would he be able to go for his ride? The barouche was all ready. He didn’t want to let down—
“That’s another two points to me, then,” said Leopold smartly, updating the score with a most irritating grin. “You know, I thought you used to be good at this.”
“Billiards is not a game for the weak,” Thomas shot back, allowing a grin to slide across his face. “You’ll soon make a mistake and—”
“‘The weak’? You jest, sir,” returned his brother.
Thomas grinned as he strode around the table to line up his next stop. “I think you’ll find that’s ‘Your Grace.’”
He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. His brother’s face did not alter, but it was the carefully considered expression that purposefully did not alter that told Thomas everything he needed to know.
“Ignore me,” Thomas said abruptly.
Leopold’s jaw was tight. “I generally do.”
“No, I am serious. I should not have said—”
“You are the duke now. There’s nothing to be done about it,” Leopold said lightly. Too lightly. “Come on, play your shot.”
Thomas turned to the table, in the main to prepare for his shot, but partly because it was easier to look at the green baize than the carefully wooden expression of his brother.
Oh, everything was topsy-turvy. The whole family had been put out of kilter with this duke business—not that he had ever asked for it—and the letters from cousins would start arriving soon. There was even talk, apparently, that his uncles were considering handing over their titles to their eldest sons in turn. It was madness. It was foolishness. It was—
Well, it was their prerogative.
And it put the second-born sons into very strange positions.
It was all very well being under the authority of a father—that was expected. But to have to look up to a brother in the same way, to accept that all of a sudden, it was your sibling who was the head of the family while your father still lived…
Thomas almost bit his tongue as he lunged for a shot and completely missed.
“One would almost think there was something on your mind,” Leopold said sarcastically.
Thomas swallowed hard before straightening up and shrugging. “I suppose there is.”
“The heavy duties of duking?”
He turned, half-hoping his brother was intending to be unpleasant so the two of them could have it out, right here and now. But Leopold was smiling, a weary smile, admittedly, but one without malice or anger.
“Honestly, I don’t mind,” he said quietly. “You were always going to be the duke. It was never—”
“Yes, but it happening now,” Thomas said wretchedly, twisting his billiard’s cue around and around in his fingertips. “It’s… It’s…”
“ Odd , I think is the word you are looking for,” supplied Leopold with a brief grin before he studied the table between them and positioned himself for his shot. It was masterful. Thomas updated the points. “You’ll be fighting off the ladies with that billiard’s cue of yours.”
Thomas snorted. Perhaps he was right. He’d never exactly had much trouble attracting the ladies to his cause at the best of times, but he hadn’t been a duke then. Just a duke’s son.
It was an interesting thought.
He knew how his father felt about matrimony, but really, a duke needn’t be faithful…
Miss Ainsworth’s pale bosom, the flush of red across her skin, made a rather jarring image in his mind at that moment. He had no need of other ladies, he reminded himself, until he’d made a conquest of this one. The one.
“He doesn’t need help with the ladies,” came a new voice, one that made Thomas flush at the insinuation. “Do you, Tommy?”
Maude, the eldest of his siblings, was leaning against the doorframe with a teasing laugh on her lips. Dark, naturally curling hair, a generally refined air and a sharpness in the eyes that brooked absolutely no critique, his sister had broken a fair few hearts in her day. Not that this isn’t her day, obviously , he mentally adjusted hurriedly. But when one’s sister reached thirty, it was natural to think her… Well. The word “spinster” had been banned by their mother, but…
“I haven’t been Tommy for years,” Thomas said, entirely ignoring the first part of her comment.
“And I quite disagree, the man desperately needs help with the ladies,” Leopold said with a laugh, clearly delighted that it was now two against one.
Maude raised an eyebrow. “If that is true, why is the barouche prepared for the new Duke of Cothrom and his ‘lady friend’ so I can’t use it to go to Milsom Street?”
Ah. Yes, he probably should have asked to use the barouche. It should have occurred to him that his sister might want to use it. Damn.
But then, Thomas reasoned as his chest swelled, did the Duke of Cothrom have to ask to use his own barouche? Surely, Father had never—
“Oh, Lord, he’s thinking about being the Duke of Cothrom,” Maude muttered in a not-so-subtle voice.
Thomas’s chest immediately deflated. “I’m not—”
“You can tell so easily—it’s all in the shoulders,” said Maude, stepping into the room and taking the billiard cue out of his unresisting fingers. “Honestly, Tommy, you are so easy to read. I don’t know why you’re thinking of taking that woman out in the barouche. Why not just tell her you want to marry her dowry and—”
“Maudy!”
Both brothers exclaimed her name in equal horror, though, Thomas thought, for different reasons.
As it was, heat was building in him that had nothing to do with the billiards table and everything to do with Miss Victoria Ainsworth.
“You can’t just go about bandying suggestions like that,” Thomas said forcefully. “And give me my cue back. You can’t play—”
“Who says I can’t?” said Maude, flaring up immediately.
“Look, the man wants to marry a fortune—” began Leopold.
“And what is wrong with that?” said Thomas, reaching to take the billiard cue from his sister.
She stepped away around the table. Oh, but she was infuriating. Were all sisters so purposefully irritating? And she always did it with a grin—that was the most annoying part!
Well. That and she’d taken his billiard cue. What on earth did she think she was going to do with it?
“Isn’t marrying a fortune a tad uncouth?” said Maude, that eyebrow once again raised.
Uncouth? “I think it’s the most ducal thing I could do,” Thomas reasoned, reaching again for the billiard cue and once again having it moved out of his reach. “What better way to safeguard the family than to bring in a whole heap of—”
“And what does she think about this?” his sister shot back, a hand now on her hip.
It made her look so like their mother, Thomas had to fight the urge to instantly tell the truth and apologize. Sisters should not be able to so easily manipulate their brothers.
“Take your shot,” she added to their brother.
Thomas looked at Leopold for assistance, but the man merely shrugged and began lining up his next shot.
“Miss Ainsworth,” Thomas began, hardly knowing where the sentence was going.
“She’ll see through you immediately,” muttered his brother. He took his shot. He missed.
“Serves you right.” Thomas smirked. “Maudy, give me back my—”
“And what makes you think I couldn’t take the shot?”
Exchanging a look with his brother that was part mirth, part pity, Thomas grinned. She is so much older than you , he reminded himself. Thirty, a spinster by any definition—though he dared not say it—and just as determined to wed for love as their mother had been. She would need a large dowry to attract a man at her age, even if he fell in love with her. She should be permitted some fun, even if it was only a few attempts on the billiards table.
As long as she didn’t rip the baize.
“Go on, then,” Thomas said aloud, stretching out his hands in a gesture of invitation. “Have a try, but don’t feel too bad if you…if you…”
His voice trailed away as Leopold gasped.
With a swiftness and adeptness he had never seen in a player, Maude stepped to the table without hesitation and potted the next ball. And the next. A swift sidestep around the table and two more balls were potted. Before Thomas could say another word, his sister had cleared the table and jumped up onto it to perch on the edge with a wry smile.
Thomas stared at her, then their brother. “But… But how… how did she—”
“I spend an inordinate amount of time at home, not permitted to leave on my own, and unwilling to go everywhere with Mother,” Maude said matter-of-factly, though Thomas did not miss the sadness behind the words. “What do you think I spend my time doing?”
Leopold was laughing. Thomas had to admit he had been thoroughly schooled.
“Very good,” he admitted. “Now, are you going to let Leo and me—”
“I am not,” Maude said smartly.
Thomas frowned. “And why not?”
“Because, Your Grace —”
“Don’t call me—”
“—because it has stopped raining. Don’t you have a bride to charm?”
Whirling around to the large bay windows overlooking the street, Thomas saw that she was right. At some point during their conversation, the rain had ceased, and there was even the suggestion of sunshine peeking out behind the clouds.
“Your barouche awaits,” Leopold said with a wink. “Now all you have to do is woo the woman.”
All he had to do was woo the woman. When put like that, it sounded quite simple.
After all, he’d wooed women before. Now, he could even offer his bride the title of “duchess” far sooner than he’d once thought. How hard could it be?
As Thomas drew up outside the Ainsworths’ home, his mouth went dry as he saw the door open and out of it appear…
How much had he drunk last night?
In his memory, Miss Ainsworth had been pretty, yes, with a bosom to sink into and a smile he’d wanted to claim as his own. But that was all.
This woman?
“Good morning,” said Miss Ainsworth lightly, alighting down the steps onto the pavement to stand beside the barouche. “I was worried the rain would prevent our ride.” She kept glancing over her shoulder and back to her front door, as if afraid someone else might appear to join them.
Perhaps she had not exactly been truthful to her mother as to her plans for the day.
If he were a gentleman, he should have insisted she bring a chaperone.
But he didn’t have the time to be a gentleman. Bills would soon need to be paid.
But more importantly, the way her neck kept turning, the smooth skin tickled by the soft ringlets of her hair…
Thomas opened his mouth, any one of the clever and charming phrases he had used to such great effect in the past just ready to spill from his lips.
None of them did.
Miss Ainsworth’s worthy smile flickered, just for a moment. “And… And yet the sunshine is here. How pleasant. La!”
Thomas was certain the day was pleasant—and if he had in any way continued to notice the weather, he was sure he would have seen it was fine. But that was not the fineness on which he was concentrating.
Miss Ainsworth was wearing a pelisse of elegant blue that tucked underneath her bust in such a way that…
Mouth dry, mind nothing but knots, Thomas cleared his throat in the hope it would encourage some words to come out.
The expression of Miss Ainsworth was bright. “Am… Am I to be permitted entrance?”
Thomas whispered, “Entrance?”
What was she talking about?
Miss Ainsworth tapped the side of the barouche with a gloved finger and a giggle. “Your… Your barouche. May I enter?”
Thomas blinked. Then suddenly, the realization he had just been staring like a complete imbecile dawning on him, reminding him all of the social niceties he had, up until this point, completely forgotten. Niceties like saying good afternoon, and how nice the weather was, and opening the door for her, and telling her how pleasant it was to see her…
Very, very pleasant.
Jumping up as though he’d been struck by lightning, which didn’t feel far from the truth, Thomas almost tripped over his own feet to descend from the barouche.
“Good afternoon, Miss Ainsworth and how nice you are. You look. Nice weather!” he stammered in a medley of words mingled with confusion and—
Well, yes. Desire.
It was strange—most ladies looked more impressive under the kind candlelight of the Assembly Rooms, and it was only when one arranged to meet them in the clear light of day that a gentleman realized that… Well. They did not quite live up to the remembrance.
“Your Grace?”
But somehow, Miss Ainsworth was quite the opposite. Oh, she had looked pretty enough standing against that pillar—Thomas told himself as a particular part of him started to become like stone—but here, in the brightness of day under a growing sun…
She looked magnificent.
“Your Grace, may I?”
And the way she looked at him with such a knowing—
Thomas blinked. “‘Your Grace’?”
“That is how I must address you now, is it not? I know you said you prefer ‘Lord Thomas,’ but I thought that would not do.” Miss Ainsworth spoke lightly, though there was a slight quaver in her tone. “La, Your Grace!”
La? Nerves, perhaps?
She wasn’t the only one. Pull yourself together, man , Thomas told himself firmly. You’re here to woo the woman, not be charmed by her in return. She’s the one who is fortunate to attract you. You’re a duke! You’re here for her fortune and not much else.
Right. Charm offensive. The old Chance charm. It had never not worked, after all.
“Miss Ainsworth, you may address me in any way you wish,” Thomas said smoothly, reaching past her and allowing just a hint of his sleeve to brush up against her arm as he opened the barouche door. “Please.”
He offered out his hand.
It was a simple gesture. It was also one he had performed countless times and for ladies of all ages and stations. Why, just last week, he had helped Lady Romeril into a carriage, and the day after, assisted his mother’s lady’s maid after they’d returned from the modiste.
Which was why Thomas had not expected much when Miss Ainsworth took his hand.
It was all he could do to stay upright. The heat that poured through the elegant glove as she took his hand—it was incomprehensible. Sparks seemed to soar down his fingers, his whole arm stiffening and his body rocking at the sudden impact.
Miss Ainsworth appeared unaffected. She released his hand without a second glance and settled herself in the barouche, pleated skirts spread out around her.
Then she looked at Thomas. “Are you quite well, Your Grace?”
Thomas blinked. He was still standing with his hand outstretched, hardly able to believe what had just happened.
This was ridiculous. He was here to woo her, not be wooed!
Clearing his throat loudly, he muttered, “Yes, yes, fine,” as he snapped the barouche door shut and stepped around the carriage to take his seat.
His seat beside the woman he had decided to marry merely for her money.
He was not looking at her for only a few moments, not even a minute, but it was enough. When Thomas stepped up into the barouche and settled himself, he was perfectly able to do so without thinking of fingers, hands, or the hip he could feel beside him.
Almost without thinking.
“Now, Miss Ainsworth, I believe I promised you a ride around Bath’s environs,” he said briskly, picking up the reins and encouraging the pair of horses into a gentle trot.
“You did, indeed,” came the giggling reply.
Thomas calmed his rapidly pacing pulse. That was it. All he had to do was lean into it. Despite what he told himself, there was no need to conflate urgency with boorishness. He may have taken this lady out without her chaperone, but he would not force her to accept him. He had a little time. At least, until the debts were called in.
“I wished particularly to show you the most delightful little hill,” Thomas said, his voice strengthening as he slipped into the flirtatious rhythm he had used time and time again. “There is the most splendid view from there that I think you will appreciate, what I believe to be the second-most beautiful view in all Bath.”
“Oh?” Miss Ainsworth’s voice sounded intrigued, and as they continued along Milsom Street and started making for the edge of the city, she asked the question Thomas had known she would. “And what is the most beautiful view in all of Bath?”
“Ah, well, there’s a difficulty there,” Thomas said, settling into his seat and its well-worn cushions as he trotted out the lines that were equally as worn. “For I am afraid you cannot see the first most beautiful view in all of Bath.”
She tilted her head. “I cannot?”
Thomas rewarded himself with a glance at his companion as the horses picked up pace and ignored the jolt of longing. “Only I can enjoy that view this morning.”
As expected, pink seared across Miss Ainsworth’s cheeks and she looked at her hands clasped in her lap before her. “Oh, la! Your Grace, you must not—”
“I do not think I like the formality of that phrase,” said Thomas completely honestly. “Not with you.”
“You… You do not?”
There was a breathiness in her voice now, one he knew well. He was usually able to get a lady to this stage within a few minutes of conversation, but there was something strange about his rapid success with Miss Ainsworth. It was… Well. Not as pleasant as he had expected.
Thomas glanced away for a moment, his gaze flickering over the hedgerows and tall oak trees lining the road leading away from Bath. The city was very much behind them now, yet the beauty of nature in winter was insufficient to distract him from his thoughts.
And the primary one was: it shouldn’t be this easy.
It was strange. He had never worried about his ability to charm the ladies—why would he? But using these lines on Miss Ainsworth, ones he had perfected with others…
It felt wrong, somehow.
Damn .
What had gotten into him?
“I suppose you would like me to…to call you ‘Lord Cothrom’?” Miss Ainsworth asked, her voice light yet weighty with meaning.
Thomas slowed the horses until they were at a gentle walk, then took the opportunity to look at his companion.
Miss Ainsworth was blushing very prettily and appeared delighted with him. Why shouldn’t she have been? He was a handsome, titled, charming gentleman of good family and, until recently, good fortune.
A twist of guilt charged through him. And here he was, wooing her merely for her money.
“I said—”
“I am sorry, I did hear you,” said Thomas, and before he could polish up the words with some Chance charm, the honest truth slipped out. “I was momentarily distracted.”
“Distracted?”
“By you,” he said simply.
Miss Ainsworth’s cheeks pinked again, but in her pupils he could see precisely what Thomas had hoped for.
Desire. Want, longing, even perhaps a need. She needed him.
Which was precisely what he had aimed for. If he played his cards right, they could be engaged within the month. Sooner, perhaps.
And that was what he needed.
Thomas steeled himself, reminded himself just how much was at stake. The whole family, their place in Society—Maude’s dowry. St. Thomas’s.
He had to do this. Even if there was a modicum of guilt.
“I still don’t know how you would like to be addressed,” said Miss Ainsworth with a smile.
Thomas , he wanted to say. Call me ‘Thomas.’ Call it out as you—
“Lord Cothrom will do just fine,” he said aloud, forcing down the instinct to open himself to her, to become vulnerable.
That must never happen. Of all people in the world, Miss Ainsworth must never know the true him, the Thomas Chance who made mistakes and let down his family so utterly.
No, best she only encounter the charming Duke of Cothrom , Thomas reminded himself sternly as he plastered a smile upon his face. That was the way it had to be.
“Tell me, Miss Ainsworth, how is your mother? I greatly wish to take tea with her…”