The Shocking Lord Standon

Jessica’s thoughts—that this was a piece of sentimental nonsense—must have shown, despite her careful lack of comment, for Gareth grinned. ‘It was not such a foolish piece of romance as you might assume. As we grew up it became obvious that because of her poor mother’s continuous ill health Maude was going to remain an only child—and there we were, presenting the perfect alliance to unite two great estates.’

‘Our fathers exchanged letters formally agreeing to the betrothal,’ Maude picked up the story. ‘And here we are.’

‘But you are not legally bound?’

‘No, this is not the Middle Ages, thank goodness, but Papa controls my money until I am thirty or I marry with his consent. And he has made sure everyone believes us to be betrothed.’

‘Then why don’t you do as he asks?’ Jessica persisted. ‘You can hardly object to Lord Standon, surely?’

‘Thank you Jessica,’ he said gravely.

‘I meant,’ she said repressively, kicking herself under the table for thinking aloud, ‘you are apparently highly eligible and you like each other.’

‘They made the mistake of bringing us up like brother and sister—we simply can’t think of each other except as that. And I know perfectly well that somewhere, out there, is the man I am going to fall in love with,’ Maude said flatly. ‘And I do not want to be married to someone else when we meet. Doomed love and broken hearts may be all very well in novels, but I have no intention of subjecting myself to such discomfort.’ She attacked an apple with a pearl-handled knife and a fierce expression. ‘But I will never get to know any men to fall in love with because no one will do more than make polite conversation because they are all scared of Gareth.’

‘He is rather formidable,’ Jessica agreed, eyeing his lordship’s brooding figure at the head of the table.

‘Thank you,’ he said again, politely. ‘We are agreed that I am eligible and formidable and that Maude cannot be sacrificed upon the altar of matrimony other than to a man she truly loves. You will also have observed that her father is a thick-skinned old termagant who won’t take no for an answer. You are a young lady whose common sense is her stock in trade—what do you suggest?’

Jessica pondered the problem, her abstracted gaze fixed on the rather attractive whorl of Gareth’s left ear where the crisp brown curl of his hair set the defined shape into sharp relief. She knew exactly what the skin there smelled like.

‘Um… You could pretend to become betrothed to someone else. Lord Pangbourne would admit defeat then, surely? But that means you need to find a complacent lady who would not mind such a charade, and you risk finding yourself permanently attached if she proves unscrupulous. Or you could do what Lady Maude suggested and embark upon a course of debauchery so public that even Lord Pangbourne will be forced to admit that he cannot marry his daughter to you. After all, he has just surprised you apparently making love amidst the marmalade.’

Maude suppressed an unladylike snort. Jessica contemplated another slice of bread and honey, decided that she was eating merely to keep her mind distracted from Gareth’s proximity and sucked the tips of her sticky fingers. Then she realised his gaze was resting on her lips and promptly snatched up her napkin. ‘The latter course would be safer—the debauchery, I mean, not the marmalade.’ Maude gave way to giggles. ‘I imagine that you could hire a professional without risk of finding yourself sued for breach of promise.’

She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining Gareth back in that brothel interviewing candidates for a charade of debauchery. Only, once having paid for them, she assumed it would require a saint not to avail himself of the services thus acquired, so playacting would not be required. He is a man, she reminded herself briskly. That is what men do. And in any case, what is it to me?

‘Excellent. We have a plan.’ Maude tossed her napkin on to the table and stood up, ignoring Lord Standon’s grimace and shaken head. ‘You see, Gareth, Jessica agrees with me.’ She smiled across the table. ‘Now, I will drive home and then send my carriage back to collect you and take you round the agencies. As soon as that is done you can come and stay with me until you are settled.’

‘But Lord Pangbourne has seen me.’

‘He saw a wanton female with her hair down, half-dressed in a improper nightgown and from the back. He will not recognise you, Jessica, take my word for it.’ Gareth walked across and opened the door. ‘Maude’s offer of the carriage is a sensible one.’

Gareth strolled through the doors of White’s, nodded absently at the porter who relieved him of his outer garments, and climbed the stairs to the library. He needed some peace and quiet to think about Maude’s predicament. For himself, although it was tiresome, Lord Pangbourne’s ambitions were merely a nuisance. He could, and would, marry where he chose. One of these days. When he got round to it.

But Maude was a considerable heiress and, if her father truly intended to, he could keep her financially dependent on him until she was thirty. She could choose herself a husband, he supposed, always provided she could find someone prepared to ignore the persistent rumour that she was already betrothed to him, or who was prepared to take a dowerless wife, but that was assuming a case of love at first sight and a determined lover at that.

He could put an advertisement in the paper, denying the rumours, but that would create a scandal—the presumption would be that there was some reason discreditable to her, which was why he did not want to marry Maude. He could carry on denying it whenever it was mentioned—but no one believed him when he did. By common consent, he would be insane to refuse to marry a lovely, high-born, wealthy young woman who would bring the Pangbourne acres to join his own. And everyone knew that Gareth Morant was no fool. He was simply, the gossips concluded, in no hurry to assume the ties of matrimony.

Meanwhile poor Maude was effectively out of bounds to any gentleman who might otherwise court her, unless he took the first step and married.

Gareth picked up a copy of The Times and found a secluded corner to read it in. Ten minutes later it was still folded on his knee and he was passing in review each of the young ladies currently on the Marriage Mart and dismissing all of them. There was a new Season about to start in a week or two; that would bring the new crop fluttering on to the scene.

Gareth steepled his fingers and contemplated marriage to a seventeen-or eighteen-year-old. It was not appealing. He liked intelligence, maturity, wit, sophistication…

‘Morant, thought I might find you here.’

Hell and damnation and… ‘Templeton.’ Gareth tossed his newspaper on to a side table and got to his feet. He might feel like strangling Maude’s father, but good manners forced him to show respect for the older man.

‘Gave me a shock this morning! Ha!’ Lord Pangbourne cast himself into the wing chair opposite Gareth and glared around to make sure they were alone. ‘Young devil.’

‘If I had expected you, my lord—’ Gareth began.

‘You’d have kept your new doxy upstairs, I’ll be bound.’

‘And what makes you think she’s a new one?’ Despite his irritation, Gareth was intrigued.

‘No sign of her before. Discreet, that’s good. I was a bit out of sorts.’

It was, Gareth realised, an apology of a kind. The best he was likely to receive. He snatched at the sign of reasonableness. ‘You know, my lord, that neither Maude nor I wish to marry each other; we have told you time and again.’

‘You’ll grow out of that nonsense.’

‘Sir, I am seven and twenty. Maude is only four years younger. She’ll be on the shelf if she has to wait much longer.’

‘She’s on your shelf, that’s the thing.’ The older man looked smug. ‘Snuff?’

‘No, thank you.’ Gareth scarcely glanced at the proffered box. ‘And if I do not marry her?’

‘You will, I have every confidence in your good sense. You are perfect for her and she’ll bring the Pangbourne estates with her when I go. Mind you, I’m not going to put up with these vapours of hers much longer. One more Season I’ll stand for and then she can go back to the country and wait for you there.’

Frustrated, Gareth tipped back his head and stared up at the chaste plasterwork of the ceiling. Maude would go mad in the country, and no suitor was going to find her stuck in rural solitude. If that was what the old devil intended then he, Gareth, was probably going to have to make the sacrifice and marry someone else.

‘Is there anything,’ he said between gritted teeth, ‘that would convince you that I am not suited for your daughter?’

‘Nothing.’ Lord Pangbourne beamed at him, his hands folded neatly over his considerable stomach. ‘I watched you with some anxiety in your salad years, I have to admit. Never can tell which way you young bucks will go—and I wouldn’t have given her to you if you’d been some rakehell, not fair on the girl to have to live with scandal and dissipation.’ He grimaced. ‘Diseases and all that. But look at you now. Perfect.’

Gareth felt far from flattered. ‘This morning you called me a libertine,’ he pointed out. ‘I was exhibiting behaviour that might well be characterised as both scandalous and dissipated,’ he added hopefully.

‘Mere irritation of nerves on my part—that daughter of mine is enough to try the patience of saint. Keeps telling me that her own true love is out there somewhere and she can’t find him with you in the way. True love, my eye! Balderdash! As for your little ladybird—don’t expect you to be a monk, my boy, just be a bit discriminating and don’t upset Maude while you’re about it.’

Lord Pangbourne hauled himself to his feet and nodded abruptly. ‘I’ll be off. See to it now, Morant—make her a declaration and all will be right and tight.’

Gareth watched the broad shoulders vanishing behind the book stacks with a sense of being caught in a trap. His thoughts churned. Damn the old… Scandal and dissipation…Coherent phrases spoken in a clear, dispassionate voice penetrated his anger. Embark upon a course of debauchery so public that even Lord Pang¬ bourne will be forced to admit that he cannot marry his daughter to you. That was what the eminently sensible Miss Gifford had counselled.

It had been Maude’s idea first, but, fond of her though he was, Gareth was used to Maude’s schemes—most of them hare-brained, to put it mildly. Miss Jessica Gifford with her wide green eyes, her clear gaze, her common sense, her sweet, high breasts and innocently generous mouth—Stop that, damn it!—her calm governess manner, now she would not suggest something hare-brained.

A business arrangement, that was what was needed. He needed to create a scandal with no repercussions once it was all over, so that Templeton accepted he was too unreliable for his Maude.

Gareth steepled his fingers and tapped the tips absently against his lips. London was filled with highly skilled courtesans with a flair for the dramatic and a love of money. Finding one to misbehave with would be simple. And distasteful. He tried to sort out why. He had taken mistresses in the past, but that had been a straightforward relationship. Something made him recoil from involving a stranger in his business and Maude’s feelings.

His errant memory conjured up a cool voice observing that a lady could hardly object to Lord Standon, a pair of warm, innocent lips against his and a slight figure shivering at his side in Rotherham’s clothes, terrified yet gamely playing her role. Playing a role…

‘Morant, there you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere—what have you done with my clothes, you—’

Gareth got to his feet as his friend marched into his sanctuary, his chubby face set in a scowl. ‘Rotherham, if you want to pluck a crow with me, you’ll have to do it some other time. I’ll get my man to pack them up and send them round this afternoon. I’m busy now.’ He added something under his breath as he passed Lord Rotherham, giving him an absentminded slap on the shoulder as he went.

The younger man stood staring after him. ‘I say, Morant, did you just say you were off to create a scandal?’ He received no response. ‘Damn funny way to carry on,’ he grumbled, picking up Gareth’s discarded newspaper and dropping into his chair. ‘Damn funny.’

An hour after breakfast, her hair braided into severity, and clad in one of the sombre and respectable gowns and pelisses Mrs Childe had purchased, Jessica began her round of the agencies. She knew them all by experience or reputation, although her previous employment had been as much as a result of answering personal advertisements as through their efforts. She did not expect much trouble in finding something suitable. Her accomplishments were superior, her references excellent and Lady Maude Templeton’s address could only, she was certain, add a certain cachet.

By four in the afternoon Jessica was hungry, thirsty and dispirited. No one, it seemed, was seeking superior governesses just now. The Climpson Agency could offer her a family of lively small boys—Jessica knew enough to interpret that as thoroughly out of control. Another bureau suggested a family in Northumberland who were seeking an adaptable governess for a daughter who, as the owner Mrs Lambert explained, was ‘Just a little, er…eccentric.’ Yes, she confirmed, there was rather a high turnover of governesses for that post.

And, as always, there were any number of middle-class families who were looking for governesses who would also act as general companions. Jessica had heard about those sort of positions; they translated as general dogsbody to the lady of the house.

‘It will be the start of the Season soon,’ Mr Climpson explained, running an inky finger down his ledgers and shaking his head. ‘People have made arrangements already so they can concentrate upon social matters. There are sure to be more opportunities once the summer is upon us; many people make changes then for some reason.’

‘I had hoped to find something suitable more quickly than that.’ Jessica looked down at the dark blue wool of her skirts. Every stitch she wore was borrowed, she had not a penny piece of her own until she could write to her bank in Leicester. And then she would have to dig into her precious savings, her only and last resource. How on earth was she going to cope otherwise—unless she took one of those posts that no one else wanted?

‘Your references and experience are excellent,’ Mr Climpson added, obviously intending to be encouraging. She knew they were, and knew without arrogance that they were the result of her own hard work and careful selection of posts. To take anything less would diminish her status, but it did not appear she had much choice.

How long could she possibly impose upon Lady Maude? A week perhaps? ‘I will call back in a few days.’ She stood up with a bright smile—it would not do to appear desperate. And there were always the newspapers to scan. Lord Pangbourne’s household would be sure to be well supplied with those.

The coachman was waiting patiently outside the agency. ‘That will be all for today, thank you.’ Jessica smiled as the footman flipped down the steps for her and held the door. ‘Please can you take me to Lady Maude’s house now.’ The carriage was such a luxury with its lap rug and heated bricks—it would not do to become used to such things. Jessica sat up straight and gave herself a mental talking to. She was lucky to be here, she knew it. If it had not been for Gareth, she would be living a nightmare of degradation and shame. She had begun from very little when Mama had died—now she had experience and references. Soon she would find employment and, in the meantime, at least she had a safe and comfortable refuge for a few days.

The carriage drew up and she peered out of the window on to the gloomy early evening scene. This must be the Pangbourne’s residence. A door opened and a tall liveried footman ran down the steps and opened the carriage door. She half-rose, expecting him to offer her his hand to descend.

‘Miss Gifford? I have a note from Lady Maude.’

Jessica unfolded it, confused, tipping the note to read it in the light from the open door. Maude’s handwriting was as bold as her personality, the words slashing across the expensive cream paper.

Dear Jessica, Things have got Much Worse—but Gareth has a plan, if only you will help us. Please will you go back to his house? Papa must not see you. Imploring your understanding, your good friend, Maude.

She looked up at the impassive footman. ‘Please tell Lady Maude I will do what she requests. Will you ask the driver to return to Lord Standon’s residence, please?’

He closed the door and the carriage rumbled off into the light drizzle. Jessica felt her shoulders sagging again, and this time found it an effort to straighten them. Now what was going to become of her?

Chapter Five

‘When did you last eat?’ Gareth demanded, his hands fisted on his hips as he looked at her.

It was not what Jessica was expecting and she stared blankly at him while she made herself think. Jordan removed her bonnet and pelisse from her unresisting hands. ‘Breakfast?’ she hazarded.

‘I thought so, you look ready to drop. Jordan! Food for Miss Gifford, in the library as soon as possible.’

‘At once, my lord.’

‘I thought you were the sensible one in all this—what were you thinking of, to starve yourself?’ Gareth was positively scolding as he guided her into the book-lined room and sat her firmly down in one of the big wing chairs in front of the fire.

‘There were so many agencies to get round,’ Jessica protested, stretching out her feet to the hearth and letting her tired back rest against the soft old leather. It was seductively easy to allow him to take charge and organise her. It gave her an entirely false sense that all would be well and she knew she could not succumb to that: she was in charge of her own destiny and no one could help her but herself.

‘This is not a race—you know I will find you somewhere to stay for as long as you need.’ Gareth dropped into the chair opposite and crossed his legs, the silver tassels on his Hessian boots swinging. A pair of those boots would keep her for months. It was a timely reminder of just how far apart their worlds were.

‘It seems the residence you suggested for me is not so suitable after all.’ Jessica held out the note. Gareth took it, scanned it and grimaced. ‘And I am afraid I was unable to find anything in the way of employment today. I will have to look at the newspapers and try the agencies again in a day or two.’

‘Nothing suitable? Please, Jessica, don’t let it worry you.’ He read the note again. ‘Maude has such a taste for the dramatic it is a pity a career on the stage is so ineligible.’ Gareth screwed it up and tossed it on to the fire. ‘It is true that if you agree to our plan it will be impossible for you to stay with her, but did you think we were going to cast you out?’

‘I am having trouble thinking clearly at all,’ she confessed. ‘I am so disorientated, so much out of my depth. I fear I must ask you for a loan of money until I can get funds from my bank in Leicester.’

‘You have funds?’ He was regarding her steadily, his face thoughtful. It was like being interviewed for a post.

‘My savings.’ My precious savings.

‘Well, you will not want to dip into those.’ She found herself nodding agreement and forced herself to sit still. It was dangerous to agree with anything he said. ‘Jessica, I have to say I am selfishly glad that you have not secured employment yet. I have a proposition for you. Maude may be dramatic, but she is right, things have deteriorated.’

‘Yes?’

He smiled at her wary tone, and she wondered why she had not thought him handsome before. And Maude does not want him? She must be about in her head…

‘You are right to sound so cool, my sensible Miss Gifford. Ah, here is something for you to eat. We will talk when you are a little revived.’

It took considerable self-control to sit quietly and eat the savoury omelette, the soft white roll and butter and the dish of lemon posset that the footman set out on the little table before her. Jessica sipped the glass of red wine Gareth poured and schooled her tongue and her patience.

When she had finished she waited while he lifted the table to the side and then folded her hands in her lap with as much composure as she could muster. ‘You say you have a proposition for me, my lord?’

‘Gareth.’ He waited until she repeated his name. ‘You made an eminently sensible suggestion at breakfast, Jessica.’

‘That you should appear to follow a path of dissipation with a mistress and scandalise Lord Pangbourne so that he will consider you unsuitable for Lady Maude?’

‘Indeed. He called upon me at my club this morning and made it very clear that he means what he says—but he also betrayed the fact that openly scandalous behaviour would not be tolerated. I think it is the only solution if I am to free Maude from this situation.’

‘And yourself?’ she asked, curious about his own position. He must be of an age where he was looking to marry, set up his nursery, ensure the succession to the title.

‘I have no desire to marry yet and, when I do, I foresee no problem. In this case it is, as so often, the woman who is weakest.’

Jessica nodded, surprised at his understanding. It seemed Gareth Morant could comprehend the difficulties of women more generally than just those applying to his friend Maude.

‘Then in what way can I assist you?’ The only possibility she could think of was that Lady Maude might require a companion to support her in this masquerade if Lord Pangbourne became even more difficult. It might even help to have another virtuous female voice echoing Maude’s assumed shock and outrage.

‘I would like you to be my mistress.’

The empty wine glass fell from her fingers and rolled away on the Oriental rug unregarded until it clinked against the table leg.

‘What? Outrageous! What do you take me for?’ Jessica sprang to her feet and took three strides away from the fireside before she swung round to face him, more words of righteous indignation trembling on her lips. And then it hit her—the memory of his mouth over hers, the heat and the smell and the feel of him. The long, hard body—

Furious and horrified at herself, Jessica shut her mouth with a snap as Gareth got slowly to his feet. ‘A masquerade, Jessica. I am asking you to pretend to be my mistress.’ His voice was steady, but there was a trace of colour across his cheekbones. ‘I would not insult you by proposing anything else.’

‘I… You… No, you would not. You made that clear last night. I beg your pardon; I seem to be more tired and less rational than I thought.’ Jessica walked back to her chair and sat, her legs suddenly stiff and awkward. She knew why she had reacted with such vehemence: Mama, of course. But mostly it was because of her own guilty desires. Self-knowledge, an admirable trait she had always thought, did nothing to improve her mood.

‘You must be tired.’ Gareth sat again too, making the silver boot tassels swing as he crossed his long legs. Jessica found herself staring at them and dragged her eyes up to meet his somewhat rueful gaze. ‘It is the shock of yesterday’s experiences; you should not underestimate the effect such trauma has on the body and mind. And then you have spent the day without proper refreshment or rest. Not very sensible of you, Miss Gifford.’

‘Then let us be sensible at all costs,’ she retorted, taking a grip on her emotions. ‘What, exactly, are you proposing, my…Gareth?’

He steepled his fingers and bent his head to touch the tips to his mouth as if collecting his thoughts, then he raised his head and looked at her steadily. How changeable his eyes are. From the light grey of a cloudy sky to hard steel from moment to moment.