style="font-size:15px;"> The duke glared at her. “Do you honestly believe the nonsense you just spouted, Clara?” He shook his head. “Never mind. It is obvious you do.”
He slowly stood and walked to the window, allowing his simmering temper to cool. Peering at the manicured grounds below, he asked, “What of Miss Whiteshead? I have absolutely no knowledge of her nor she of me.” He turned to face her. “Explain her background so that I may have a more clear understanding as to why you find her the more desirable choice of bride for me.”
He would never admit it, but Clara’s improvised plan did have merit. It would get the little ambitious debutants and their marriage-minded mommas off his back and would allow him to operate more freely.
Clara turned in her chair to watch him. “You seriously do not remember the scandal and her abrupt departure for America?” She thought for a moment. “Of course, you do not. You were in France at the time, and you have never had any interest in societal intrigue.”
Motioning to his chair, she said, “Please, Colton. Take a seat. I will explain, but I would rather you sit so that I will not get a kink in my neck looking up at you.” She turned back around and took another sip. “My, but you are a tall one.”
Colton resumed his seat, not to accommodate Clara but for his own comfort. Knowing her as he did, he knew this explanation would be lengthy, allowing for her own opinions to be inserted to enhance the story.
“Seven years ago was Miss Whiteshead’s coming out season. Oh, but she was lovely! Blond hair, blue eyes, the epitome of English aristocracy! She was a cut above all of the current offerings of that year because of the considerable intelligence that shone in her eyes. She was definitely not one of the simpering misses the ton turns out every year. She was pursued by many but did not seem to have a preference for any one man. Her mother and father appeared to be allowing her the freedom to make her own choice but were diligent in supervision and took their chaperone obligations seriously.
“Unfortunately, one night at the Thornton ball, one enamored suitor convinced her to step outside for some fresh air.” She frowned. “Or maybe he maneuvered her out the open doors during their dance. That part is still somewhat sketchy at best. No one has ever really received a clear explanation.”
Shrugging, she continued, “Anyway, when her mother realized her absence, she immediately went in search of her daughter. When she came upon the young suitor, he was trying to force the young Miss Whiteshead into a waiting carriage. Her mother flew at him, trying desperately to extricate her daughter from his clutches. The horses spooked. Marilyn managed to shove her daughter clear of the carriage, but her own gown was caught, and it drug her alongside the fleeing carriage, finally dragging her underneath its grinding wheels.” Drinking the last from her glass, she said bluntly, “She was killed instantly.”
Clara paused, staring into her now empty glass. “Her death devastated the family. They went into mourning, and, within the month, Alice was shipped off to her aunt in America and was not seen or heard from again for seven years.” She looked up at Colton. “Until this year.”
Colton took a few moments to digest the plethora of information that Clara had just divulged. It was quite overwhelming to his fuzzy mind. Maybe he should lighten up on the scotch.
“And whatever happened to this ambitious suitor? Was he held accountable for his crimes?”
“Strange, that. He was never identified. No one admitted any knowledge of the man, how he was admitted to the ball, or whom made the introduction to Miss Whiteshead. It was quite the mystery. But Marilyn was dead, Alice ruined, and a family destroyed, all in the course of a few minutes.”
Clara leveled a look at him. “Alice deserves a chance at redemption. She is no longer a romantic child looking for her knight in shining armor or a happily ever after. She is a grown woman of five and twenty who is sensible and has endured tragedy that would have crippled a lesser person. She is positively stunning but not vain. She would be an asset to any man but will not suffer fools.”
Her voice softened as she leaned forward. “She is loyal to a fault. She will need a strong man to stand beside her and stare down those who still falsely judge her and a strong hand to tame that spirit and use it to his own advantage.”
As if realizing she was sounding almost sentimental, Clara straightened. “Besides, it will be nothing short of a miracle if you get her to the altar. She may appear to capitulate, for now. But make no mistake, Miss Alice Marie Whiteshead has no intention of being leg shackled to you or any other man.”
And just as he was starting to soften his opinion of the chit, Clara stood up and placed her glass on his desk. “Well, I have another appointment to keep and have no further time for idle chitchat.” She walked around the desk and placed her hand on Colton’s shoulder. “I wish you the best of luck, love. You are going to need it!” Giggling, she walked to the mantle and pushed a hidden button. With a click, a secret entrance opened, and she stepped through. Peeking back out, Clara whispered, “Toodles, dear! Take care!” Pulling the door closed behind her.
Damn. He should have strangled her while he had the chance. Now he was actually contemplating his future bride and their impending marriage.
Double damn.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, using his desk as leverage. There was somewhere he was supposed to be. Given a minute or two, he may remember where that was.
Fumbling in his waistcoat, he retrieved his pocket watch. He could not seem to make out the time clearly. He must have something in his eyes. Maybe Clara had stirred up some dust when she was pretending to clean.
He was sure that there was someone he was to see shortly. Or later. The watch clearly did not know the time, nor did he.
Flopping back down in his chair, he closed his eyes. Maybe if he rested them for a few moments they would clear, as well as his head.
Maybe.
Chapter Three
Someone must be using a hammer to do repair work very close by. As in right next to his head. Or on it.
Colton was going to enjoy relieving them of their duties and having them tossed out on their backside. Without references!
He attempted to open one of his eyes to spot the culprit, but a bright light forced it closed. Who had had the bollocks to drag his bed outside directly under the midday sun?
The pounding continued, increasing the pain in his head. There was nothing for it. When he could get his body to cooperate, he was going to have to run someone through. Firing was too small of a punishment for this transgression.
He tried again to find the source of his misery and slightly turned his head. Fresh pain shot down his neck and into his shoulder which caused both eyes to fly open. Which, in turn, caused him to emit a cry of pain.
Lords Charleton and Hampshire charged through the door, their ceremonial swords drawn. Searching for the source of Colton’s distress and finding no others in the room, they slowly sheathed their weapons.
“Good Lord, man! You gave us quite a scare!” Lord Charles Charleton, the Earl of Arendon, walked back to Colton’s desk and took in his appearance. Colton sat sideways, a hand on his pained neck, his eyes mere slits, failing to filter out the light shining through the open windows. But the near empty bottle at his elbow was the most telling.
Charles
