Cavendish Brothers 02 - To Enchant an Icy Earl Read online

  To Enchant an Icy Earl ~ Catherine Gayle

  To Charley, Clayton, Mr. Ed, Mike, J.T., and all of the other men who’ve come into my life with walls around your hearts that could rival the Great Wall of China. Thank you for teaching me to take out my tiny chisel and hammer and begin to break through. Thank you for trusting me to do it.

  “Fordingham, you look like you could use a drink.” Viscount Dering made to clap a hand over Fordingham’s shoulder, but stopped himself just before he made contact—most likely due to the frosty glare aimed squarely in his direction. “Come, we’ll play a hand of Vingt-et-un. Get foxed together. Put a little life in your eyes.”

  But little did Dering know that Tristan Cavendish, the fourth Earl of Fordingham, had no desire to get foxed or play cards, or do anything else whatsoever with the viscount tonight…or ever at all, for that matter. Whether it was possible to put “a little life in his eyes” or not was a matter Fordingham held in sincere doubt. He briefly passed his gaze over the entirely-too-jovial man, lifting a single eyebrow in practiced and perfected disdain, and then stoically returned his attention to the entryway to Godfrey House. “Not tonight.”

  Running off to the card room would be counter-productive. He was here tonight for one reason and one reason only: to compel his wayward brother Wesley to meet with him, by force if necessary. Doing so would require Fordingham to be present amongst the other revelers here at the soiree upon Wesley’s arrival. It would be entirely too easy otherwise for the younger brother to learn of the elder’s presence and subsequently make his escape, with Fordingham being none the wiser until it was too late.

  As that very thing had already happened in some manner or another twice since the Little Season began, Fordingham had no intention of allowing another opportunity to slip through his fingers.

  Dering, however, did not scamper off as he ought to have done after Fordingham’s dismissal of him. Instead, he let out something which sounded distinctly like a chuckle. “You can’t think to stand there scowling all night. You’ll scare off all the ladies.”

  Fordingham turned the full weight of his aforementioned scowl upon the cloyingly affable gentleman who refused to leave him be but did not deign to respond.

  The glare finally obtained the much-sought-after success. Dering gave a twitchy inclination of his head and then left with no further interruption to Fordingham’s solitary objective.

  With one hand, Fordingham reached up and adjusted his cravat—not that such an adjustment was necessary. His cravat was perfectly knotted, as always. He would never have left the confines of his London home otherwise. Straightening the neck cloth simply gave him something to do other than stand stock-still and stare with his oh-so-dreadful scowl at the other inhabitants of the room. Perhaps he would draw less attention if he weren’t so thoroughly imperturbable—if he did something with himself. At least that was the reasoning he used within his own mind for his actions.

  Alas, adjusting the cravat took a mere moment to complete, and then he was yet again standing with his back to the wall with his hands clasped behind him and an impassive expression fixed upon his countenance.

  A few others drew close to him including Godfrey, the host for the night’s soiree. Fordingham paid none of them any mind, and soon enough they all left. Just as everyone and everything in his life had always done.

  Finally he saw Wesley, with his wife at his side, coming through the entryway. In atypical fashion, Fordingham actually noticed the chit first. Her dull brown hair and shy demeanor made her easy to recognize as the Pritchards’ housemaid who’d been only too happy to aid Wesley’s rapid descent into madness.

  Admittedly, that wasn’t a fair assessment of her character. She was no longer a housemaid, but was now the wife of a gentleman. Fordingham had decided months ago to release the resentments he felt over Wesley’s duplicity. In order to succeed in his endeavor, he would have to begin seeing Wesley’s wife in the new light she’d recently acquired.

  Learning her name might be helpful in order to accomplish this objective—a realization which emphasized yet another thing over which Fordingham could hate his long-deceased father. The new Mrs. Cavendish might have been a mere servant once upon a time, but she was still a person, and people had names. Yet until recently, he’d never seen servants as people and had only seen fit to learn the names of those servants with whom he was most likely to be forced to interact.

  Much had changed in Fordingham’s life of late.

  Then Wesley followed his wife through the door, all dark and devilish looking, just like the blackguard Father had painted him to be so many years ago—an image Fordingham had been only too willing to allow his brother to maintain for quite some time.

  Too long.

  Fordingham took off across the room to meet them while Wesley and his wife were still involved with greeting Lady Godfrey. If he caught them with members of the ton surrounding them all, surely they would stay long enough to hear him out without causing a scene.

  Just before he drew close enough to speak to them sans shouting, the woman looked up. Her eyes widened as they met his and she tensed, no doubt alerting her husband to the fact that something was amiss.

  Wesley turned. Fordingham could tell the precise moment that recognition struck his brother—Wesley’s eyes hardened to black slits, his jaw tensed, and he wrapped a protective arm around his wife’s waist, nearly drawing her behind him in an overly familiar gesture for such a public gathering.

  So perhaps Wesley did intend to make a scene. Or, perchance, he simply hadn’t thought through what he would do in such a circumstance. He’d always been a bit hotheaded.

  Fordingham ought to have expected this very reaction. His brother had been avoiding him for a full week now, even instructing the servants to bar him from the townhouse Danby had provided the new couple so that Wesley could pursue his political interests.

  Yet oddly enough, this behavior still took Fordingham unaware.

  “Mrs. Cavendish,” he said as warmly as he could manage, though admittedly his tone was far from warm. He’d never been shown any affection, so how could he know how to give any in return? “So good to see you here this evening. And you, brother.”

  “What do you want?” Wesley barked in response. The slits of his eyes somehow narrowed further, a clear indication that his impending rage was preparing to be set forth.

  Fordingham shook his head slightly, taking Mrs. Cavendish by the elbow and guiding her into a more private alcove with the assurance that his brother would follow.

  He was wrong in his assumption.

  Wesley’s hand came down over his, taking his fingers in a vise-like grip and forcefully removing them from Mrs. Cavendish’s elbow. “You will never touch my wife again if you value your life, Tris.”

  It took every ounce of restraint he had not to counter Wesley’s use of his Christian name with a reminder that he was Fordingham and had been for some time now. Some habits and beliefs had been so fully beaten into him by his father, he wondered if he could ever truly be free of them.

  Moments like these left him feeling jealous of his brother, for whatever reason. Jealous of the spare? The commoner hell-bent on being a Whig revolutionary? It made no sense, particularly since Father had beaten Wesley, too. His beatings had been even more harsh and more frequent than those Fordingham received. But the beatings seemed to have had no effect upon his brother. Not in the way they’d had upon Fordingham.

  No matter what Father had wished him to believe and say and do, Wesley had kept his own beliefs, done as he wished, remained fully and truly himself.

  But who was Tristan Cavendish? Tristan—the
man—no longer existed. He’d been left behind so long ago there were no more remnants floating about in the ether.

  Only Fordingham remained: an unfeeling earl, resolutely alone in the world; a peer of the realm who valued his position above all, just as Father had insisted upon. No matter how much had heretofore changed in his life, an immeasurable amount of change must still take place.

  Nevertheless, with as much cool detachment as he could muster, Fordingham relinquished his hold on Mrs. Cavendish and then eyed his brother for a moment before returning his gaze to the lady. “I wish to speak with you. Both of you,” he added before his brother could object to Fordingham wanting to speak with Wesley’s bride alone. “You will join me for supper tomorrow at Fordingham House.”

  “It’s customary for invitations to be given as requests,” Wesley grumbled, with more than just the hint of a threat coloring his words.

  And he was likely right. Politeness, customs, general courtesy—these were all things Father had taught him to ignore, behaviors Father had done his best to wash from Fordingham’s person and toss out with the bathwater.

  The Earl of Fordingham issues commands, not requests. Conferring his presence upon those below his station is an honor for them—one which is to be granted sparingly and with a great deal of forethought as to the potential consequences.

  But clearly that was the problem. One of the problems, at least.

  So he nodded curtly. “Quite so. Would you both join me tomorrow for supper at Fordingham House?”

  The change in Fordingham’s tactic seemed to take Wesley thoroughly by surprise. His eyes lost their squint, widening in shock for the briefest of moments. Then he recovered himself long enough to growl, “Why?”

  Then it was Fordingham’s turn for surprise. Mrs. Cavendish reached around from behind Wesley, placing her hand cautiously on his. He gentled instantly, losing all of the fight that had him bowed up before he looked lovingly down into her eyes.

  She gave him a slight, tremulous smile with an entreaty in her gaze, and then she turned to Fordingham. “We would be honored to join you, my lord.”

  Wesley ground his jaw hard enough that the action was almost audible over the din of the soiree. He stared down at his wife, questioning her with a scowl, yet she did not cower beneath him. And then he nodded with a long exhalation, the same curt nod that Fordingham had long since perfected.

  There was at least one thing the two had in common other than their parentage. With any small amount of fortune, perhaps there would be more.

  “We’ll be there.” His lips twitched as he said it. Surely, agreeing to anything Fordingham had requested did not sit well with the younger brother. This discomfort did not stop Wesley from relenting to his wife’s will, however.

  What would it be like to care so deeply for a woman that one would willingly do things one would rather gouge out one’s eyes than do otherwise?

  Fordingham did not have long to ponder such anomalies. Mrs. Cavendish gave a brief curtsey, and then Wesley whisked her away before they could say anything else.

  He stared after them, watching them disappear into the crush.

  When he could see them no longer, a woman stepped into the path they’d just vacated—a woman with a pair of eyes so clear and blue and luminous, he was left shaken to the core. Fordingham had been certain he’d never see that particular shade again in his life after he’d left Greece. They were the color of the sea, clear enough he felt he could see all the way down to the depths of her soul as he’d once seen the very floor of the ocean.

  He stood there, dumbfounded, as she started across the room. Toward him, of all people. Try as he might, Fordingham could not take his eyes from her: her lush, near-black hair; her rich skin, so unlike anything he expected to find whilst surrounded by so many ladies with their pale, English rose complexions; the soft, sloping curves of her hips and waist and breasts.

  She was a vision from a dream, a mirage, beckoning him to drink from a pool which did not exist.

  And she stilled directly before him.

  His heart stopped and, for what must be the first time in his life, he could not take a breath—until she smiled, directly up at him, her full lips stretching almost seductively. Warmth billowed over him like sunrise over the Greek sea. Life flooded back into him so quickly it left him terrified.

  She leaned in close to his ear and whispered, “I should like for you to seek an introduction to me, my lord. Lady Marston is my chaperone tonight.”

  At this moment in time, Fordingham would have done anything she wanted. Just as Wesley would do anything his wife desired.

  This was not what he had bargained for in attending this soiree. For the first time in his life, Fordingham was absolutely, unequivocally terrified.

  With her heart thudding against the walls of her chest and a furious blush heating her cheeks, Calista Bartlett turned as calmly as she could and made her way back across the room so she could once again stand next to her new sister-in-law. On her way, she selected a glass of orgeat from a footman’s tray in order to excuse her brief disappearance, wishing it was apple brandy or sherry, or something equally as strong, but orgeat would have to suffice.

  Lord only knew where the audacity to speak so brazenly to Lord Fordingham had come from.

  What had she just done? It went thoroughly against her nature to beg an introduction to a gentleman she didn’t know.

  But she’d been watching Lord Fordingham since her arrival an hour ago. Unlike so many of the other gentlemen present, he did not behave in a garish, outlandish manner. He was reserved. He stood to the side and kept his voice down to a respectable level. He did not accost young ladies, and then openly and outrageously flirt with them before moving on to the next, and then do the same all over again.

  No, he simply stood there against the wall, straight and austere, calmly scanning the room with his hands clasped behind his back. While he may dress in the current fashions as dictated by society, there was nothing else particularly fashionable about him—which was precisely the reason Calista knew he would be the perfect gentleman for whom she should set her cap.

  He was nothing—nothing—like Lord Ellis. Lord Fordingham would not leave her heartbroken by running off to Gretna Green with her dearest friend, simply because Calista was in mourning and unable to participate in social activities alongside him.

  Not that she was still in mourning at the moment, but that was beside the point.

  The point was that Ellis ought to have stood beside her during her grief, but instead he ran off and found someone with whom to replace her. The only way he could have hurt her more thoroughly than he had done would have been to run off with Miranda or Penelope, one of her sisters, instead of her most especial friend. But if he would be willing to do that while the Bartlett family was in mourning, why wouldn’t he take Calista instead of a sister?

  Alas, he had not run off with Calista, nor with either of her sisters. He’d run off with Valetta Norton—despite his previous insistence that Calista break all ties with the girl. He’d done the very last thing she ever would have expected of him.

  Lord Fordingham, on the other hand, was precisely what one thought him to be upon watching him.

  Stoic. Staid. Steady.

  Exactly what Calista wanted.

  Louisa, her new sister-in-law, smiled gently at her as she drew near, her blonde curls bouncing in the candlelight. “Where have you been off to?”

  Calista quickly took a sip of her orgeat and grimaced as she swallowed, though she did savor the burn threading its way through her body. Should she tell Louisa the truth of what she’d done? She still didn’t know Devlin’s new bride all that well, and so she had no means of predicting how Louisa would react, but lying had never sat well with her.

  Still, that didn’t mean the entire roomful of people needed to know what she’d done. She leaned close to her sister-in-law and kept her voice low. “I just asked Lord Fordingham to request an introduction to me.”

 
That revelation removed the smile from Louisa’s countenance altogether. She pulled Calista into the nearest corner where they could have some privacy and whispered heatedly, “Lord Fordingham? But why ever would you do something like that?” She sounded scandalized by Calista’s admission, and her eyes held a touch of fear, unless Calista was very much mistaken on that score. Why on earth would she be afraid of the man?

  Calista wasn’t given the opportunity to respond or do more than merely wonder about Louisa’s fears. Lord Fordingham, as if on command, had followed her through the throng and was now by Louisa’s side.

  “Lady Marston, kindly introduce me to the young lady beside you.” An order, not a request, and one delivered with all the authority of the king.

  Calista shivered slightly at the note of power in his tone, the surety with which he conducted himself. She shivered even more fully at the slight detachment in his demeanor. His visage held no expression whatsoever, no emotion save perhaps bored indifference.

  Was she certain this was what she wanted—that he was what she wanted?

  And yet, he had followed after her. He’d done as she asked him to do, even without knowing who she was or why she wanted him to do anything at all. Surely that must count for something, shouldn’t it?

  Louisa bristled at his commanding tone. As well she should—her grandfather was the Duke of Danby, for goodness’s sake. Nevertheless, she turned and did as the earl bade her. “Miss Calista Bartlett, this is the Earl of Fordingham. Lord Fordingham, meet Miss Bartlett.”

  Calista dipped her head quickly. “My lord,” she murmured, thoroughly flummoxed that she’d done something so audacious as to orchestrate this meeting. All her newfound confidence had fled her in the last few moments.

  Calista was the eldest Bartlett sister, but she was also the most hesitant Bartlett sister—the one who always wanted to know every tiny detail of something before she made any plans. She was the shy one who would prefer to blend into her surroundings instead of standing out. But this time, she’d not allowed herself to think of the consequences of her actions before she’d run off and acted. This time, she’d been bold.