To Wed a Wild Lord Read online

  “Lord Jarret is out at the picnic, and Lord Oliver chose not to go. That leaves only Lord Gabriel. You.”

  The man’s voice was soft, even kind. He didn’t say things in that lofty tone grown-ups usually used with children. And he didn’t sound as if he wanted to get Gabe into trouble.

  “Do you know where the grooms are?” the man asked, his voice moving away.

  Gabe relaxed now that the subject was off him. “They went to meet a carriage.”

  “Then they probably won’t mind if I saddle my own mount.”

  “I guess not.”

  Oliver saddled his own mount all the time. So did Jarret. Gabe couldn’t wait until he was big enough to saddle a mount. Then he wouldn’t have to ask Father’s permission to ride Jacky Boy.

  As the man chose the horse from the next stall, all Gabe could see was his beaver hat showing above it. After he rode off, Gabe started to wonder if he should have found out the man’s name, or at least tried to get a better look at him. Sudden panic gripped him. What if the man was a horse thief, and Gabe had just let him ride right off?

  No, the man had known Gabe’s name and all about the rest of them. He had to be a guest. Right?

  Benny came back in the stable and, before Gabe could say anything, called out, “The guests are returning from the picnic, lad. You’d best run up to the house if you don’t want your father catching you here.”

  Gabe’s panic returned. If Father learned he’d snuck out of the schoolroom again, he’d get his hide tanned. Father was strict about their studies.

  He ran for the house. When he reached the schoolroom, his tutor was still snoring. With a sigh of relief, Gabe settled into the chair and took up the boring book again.

  But he couldn’t think about the dead Cock Robin. He kept wondering about the unknown man. Should he have said something to Benny? What if there was a hue and cry about a stolen horse? What if he got into trouble?

  He was still fretting over it after dinner in the nursery with Minerva. Celia, who’d been sick with a cough, was already asleep when a footman, Nurse, and Mr. Virgil came to fetch them. Grandmother Plumtree wanted to talk to him and Minerva downstairs, the footman said solemnly.

  Gabe’s pulse leaped into a gallop. The man in the stable must have stolen a horse, and somehow Gran had found out that Gabe had let him do it. But then, why bring Minerva into it?

  The footman brought them into the library, leaving Celia with Nurse and Mr. Virgil. When Gabe saw Oliver standing there with his hair wet and his eyes red, wearing different clothes than he’d worn earlier, he didn’t know what to think.

  Then Jarret appeared, summoned by another servant. “Where’s Mother and Father?”

  Oliver’s face hardened to granite, and his eyes turned scary looking.

  “I have something to tell you, children.” Gran spoke more softly than usual. “There’s been an accident.” Something caught in her voice, and she cleared her throat.

  Was she crying? Gran never cried. Father said she had a heart of steel.

  “Your parents . . .”

  She broke off and Oliver flinched, as if struck. “Mother and Father are dead,” he finished for her in a voice that didn’t even sound like his.

  The words didn’t register at first. Dead? Like Cock Robin? Gabe stared at them, waiting for someone to take it back.

  No one took it back.

  Gran wiped her eyes, then straightened her shoulders. “Your mother mistook your father for an intruder at the hunting lodge, and she shot him. When she realized her error, she . . . she shot herself, too.”

  Beside him, Minerva began to cry. Jarret kept shaking his head and saying, “No, no, it can’t be. How can that be?” Oliver went to stand by the window, his shoulders quivering.

  Gabe couldn’t stop thinking about that stupid poem:

  Then all the Birds fell

  To sighing and sobbing,

  When they heard the bell toll

  For poor Cock Robin.

  It was just like the poem, except without the bell. Gabe didn’t know what to do. Gran was saying that they weren’t to speak of it to anyone, because there would be scandal enough without that, but her words made no sense. Why would he want to speak of it? He couldn’t even believe it happened.

  Perhaps this was a nightmare. He would wake up, and Father would be here.

  “Are you sure it was them?” he asked in a wavering voice. “Perhaps it was somebody else who got shot.”

  Gran looked stricken. “I’m sure. Oliver and I saw the—” With a grimace, Gran stepped over to put her arms around him and Minerva. “I’m sorry, my darlings. Try to be strong. I know it’s hard.”

  Minerva just kept weeping. Gran held her close.

  Gabe thought of the last time he saw Father, riding out to the picnic, and Mother, hurrying to the stable. How could that have been the last time? Now he could never tell Father he was sorry for putting the spider in Minerva’s hair. Father had died thinking he was a bad boy who wouldn’t apologize.

  That’s when tears welled in his eyes. He couldn’t let Jarret and Oliver see—they would think him a stupid girl. So he darted from the room, ignoring Gran’s startled cry, and dashed toward the stable.

  It was quiet; the grooms were at their supper. As soon as he reached Jacky Boy’s stall, he collapsed on the floor and began to cry. It wasn’t right! How could they be dead?

  He wasn’t sure how long he lay there sobbing, but next thing he knew, Jarret had entered the stall and bent down to lay his hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “Come now, lad. Buck up.”

  Gabe shoved Jarret’s hand away. “I can’t! Th-They’re gone, and they’re n-never coming back!”

  “I know,” Jarret said, his voice unsteady.

  “It’s n-not fair.” Gabe gazed up at Jarret. “Other children’s p-parents don’t die. Wh-why should ours?”

  Jarret bit his lip. “Sometimes things happen.”

  “It’s j-just like that s-stupid book about Cock Robin. M-Makes no sense.”

  “Life doesn’t make sense,” Jarret said softly. “You mustn’t expect it to. Fate has a hand in everything, and nobody can explain why Fate acts as it does.”

  Jarret still didn’t cry, though his eyes were hollow and his face was screwed up in an odd way, as if somebody had stepped hard on his foot.

  Gabe had always liked Jarret the best of everyone, but right now he hated how calm Jarret was. Why wasn’t his brother angry?

  “We have to be strong,” Jarret went on.

  “Why?” Gabe shot back. “What does it matter? They’re still d-dead. And we’re still all a-alone.”

  “Yes, but if you let Fate have the upper hand, it will drag you down. You must refuse to be cowed. Laugh at it, tell it to go to hell. It’s the only way to beat it.”

  It wasn’t Life that made no sense. It was Death. It took people away for no reason. Mother oughtn’t have shot Father, and sparrows oughtn’t shoot cock robins. Yet they were all still dead.

  Death could take him away, too, any time it wanted. Fear gripped him by the throat. He could die any minute. For no reason.

  How was he to stop it? Death seemed to be a sneaky bastard, coming up from behind to deal low blows. If it came after him . . .

  Perhaps Jarret was right. There was nothing to do but stand up to Death. Or even try to ignore it. Gabe had played with plenty of sneaky bastards, and the only way to deal with them was not to cower, not to show that they hurt you. Then they went off to torment other chaps and left you alone.

  He thought of Mother and Father lying somewhere dead, and tears stung his eyes again. Wiping them ruthlessly away, he stuck out his lower lip. Perhaps Death could get him the way it had grabbed Mother and Father, but not without a fight.

  If it wanted him, it would have to drag him kicking and screaming. Because he would not go easy.

  Chapter One

  Eastcote, August 1825

  Virginia Waverly could hardly contain her excitement as the carriage hurtled toward Ma
rsbury House. A ball! She was going to a ball at last. She would finally get to use those waltz steps her second cousin, Pierce Waverly, the Earl of Devonmont, had taught her.

  For a moment, she let her mind wander through a lovely fantasy of being danced about the room by a handsome cavalry officer. Or perhaps by their host himself, the Duke of Lyons! Wouldn’t that be grand? She knew what people said about his father, whom they called “the Mad Duke,” but she never paid attention to such gossip.

  She did wish she had a more fashionable gown—like the one of pink gros de Naples she’d seen in The Ladies Magazine. But fashionable gowns were expensive, which is why she had to make do with her old tartan silk one, bought when Scottish garb was all the rage. How she wished she’d picked something less . . . distinctive to make over. Everybody would take one look at her and know how poor she was.

  “I can see that you’re worried,” Pierce said.

  Virginia stared at him, surprised by his insight. “Only a little. I tried to make this gown more fashionable by adding a net overlay, but the sleeves are still short, so now it just looks like an outdated gown with strange sleeves.”

  “No, I meant—”

  “Surely people won’t fault me too much for that.” She thrust out her chin. “Though I don’t care if they do. I’m the only woman of twenty I know who’s never been to a ball. Even the farmer’s daughter next door went to one in Bath, and she’s only eighteen!”

  “What I was talking about—”

  “So I’m not going to let my gown or my inexperience on the dance floor keep me from enjoying myself,” she said stoutly. “I shall eat caviar and drink champagne, and for one night pretend that I’m rich. And I shall finally dance with a man.”

  Pierce looked affronted. “Now see here, I’m a man.”

  “Well, of course, but you’re my cousin. It’s not the same.”

  “Besides,” he said, “I wasn’t talking about your gown. I meant, aren’t you worried about running into Lord Gabriel Sharpe?”

  She blinked. “Why would he be there? He wasn’t at the race today.”

  A few years ago, the Duke of Lyons had started an annual race—the Marsbury Stakes—run on a course on his property. This year her grandfather, Pierce’s greatuncle, General Isaac Waverly, had entered a Thoroughbred stallion from their stud farm. Lamentably, Ghost Rider had lost the race and the Marsbury Cup.

  That’s why Pierce was accompanying her to the race ball tonight, instead of her grandfather—Ghost Rider’s poor performance had keenly disappointed Poppy. It had disappointed her, too, but not enough to keep her from attending the ball.

  “Sharpe is Lyons’s close friend,” Pierce said. “In fact, he was at the race in Turnham Green with Roger.”

  Her stomach sank. “That can’t be! The only people there were Lord Gabriel and some fellow named Kinloch—”

  “The Marquess of Kinloch, yes. That was Lyons’s title before his father died and he ascended to the dukedom.”

  She scowled. “No wonder Poppy refused to attend tonight. Why didn’t he tell me? I wouldn’t have come.”

  “That’s why. Uncle Isaac wanted you to enjoy yourself for once. And he assumed that Sharpe wouldn’t be there since he wasn’t at the race.”

  “Still, I’ll have to face the duke, who let Roger run that awful course in Turnham Green despite knowing the risks. Why did he invite us? Doesn’t he realize who we are?”

  “Perhaps he’s holding out the olive branch to you and Uncle Isaac for his own part in Roger’s death, small as it was.”

  She snorted. “Rather late, if you ask me.”

  “Come now, you can’t blame Lyons for what happened. Or Sharpe either, for that matter.”

  She glared at Pierce. They’d had this argument many a time in the seven years since her brother had died in a dangerous carriage race against Lord Gabriel. “His lordship and Kinloch—Lyons—took advantage of Roger’s being drunk—”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Well, no one knows for sure, since Lord Gabriel refuses to speak of it. But Poppy says that’s what happened, and I believe him. Roger would never have agreed to threading the needle with Lord Gabriel when sober.”

  The course was called “threading the needle” because it ran between two boulders with room enough for only one carriage to pass. The racer coming behind had to rein in to allow the other to drive through. Roger hadn’t pulled back in time and had been thrown into a boulder. He’d been killed instantly.

  She’d hated Lord Gabriel ever since.

  “Men do stupid things when they’re drunk,” Pierce said. “Especially when they’re with other men.”

  “Why do you always make excuses for Lord Gabriel?”

  Pierce cast her a shuttered look from eyes the exact shade of brown as Ghost Rider’s. “Because although he may be a reckless madman who risks his neck every chance he gets, he’s not the devil Uncle Isaac makes him out to be.”

  “We’ll never agree on this,” she said, tugging at her drooping gloves.

  “Only because you’re stubborn and intractable.”

  “A family trait, I believe.”

  He laughed. “Indeed it is.”

  Virginia gazed out the window and tried to regain her buoyant mood, but it was no use. The ball was doomed to be ruined if Lord Gabriel showed up.

  “Still,” Pierce went on, “if Sharpe does come, I hope you’ll refrain from mentioning the challenge you gave him a month and a half ago.”

  “And why should I?”

  “Because it’s madness!” His eyes narrowed on her. “It’s not like you to do something so irresponsible. I know you didn’t mean to issue that challenge—you were just angry—but to continue would be foolish, and you aren’t that.”

  She glanced away. Sometimes Pierce had no clue what went on inside her. He and Poppy insisted upon seeing her as some pillar of domestic virtue who kept the farm running and wanted the same things all women her age wanted—a stable home and a family, even if it was just with Poppy.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want those things. She just . . . didn’t want them at the sacrifice to her soul. To the part of her that felt boxed in sometimes by constant work and responsibility. The part of her that wanted to dance at a ball.

  And race Lord Gabriel Sharpe.

  Pierce went on lecturing. “Besides, if Uncle Isaac ever hears that you challenged Sharpe to a race on the same course that killed Roger, he’ll put a stop to it at once.”

  True. Poppy was a mite overprotective. She’d been only three years old when he’d left the cavalry to take care of her and Roger after their parents, his son and daughter-in-law, had died in a boating accident.

  “How will he hear of it?” Virginia batted her eyelashes at Pierce. “Surely you wouldn’t be so cruel as to tell him.”

  “Oho, don’t try your tricks on me, dear girl. They may work on Uncle Isaac, but I’m immune to such things.”

  She stiffened. “I’m not a girl anymore, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Actually, I have. Which is why you must stop tormenting Lord Gabriel. This ball is your chance to find a husband. And chaps don’t like it when women go about challenging men to foolish races.”

  “I’m in no hurry to marry,” she said, giving him the same lie she always gave her grandfather. “I prefer to stay with Poppy as long as possible.”

  “Virginia,” Pierce said softly, “don’t be naïve. He’s sixty-nine. The likelihood of him living much longer—”

  “Don’t say it.” The very thought of Poppy dying made her stomach roil. “He’s in good health. He could live to be a hundred. Surely one of our horses will win a good prize in the coming years, enough to increase my pathetic dowry.”

  “You could always marry me.” Pierce waggled his dark brown brows. “You wouldn’t even have to leave home.”

  She gaped at him. Because of Roger’s death, Pierce would inherit Waverly Farm, but he’d never before suggested marriage. “And who would be sleeping in
the room adjoining yours—me or your mistress?”

  He scowled at her. “Now see here, I’d give up my mistress.”

  “For me? The devil you would.” She smirked at him. “I know you better than that.”

  “Well,” he said sullenly, “I wouldn’t keep her in the same house, at least.”

  She laughed. “Now that is the Pierce Waverly I know. Which is precisely why I could never marry you.”

  Unmistakable relief crossed his face. “Thank God. I’m too young to be leg-shackled.”

  “Thirty isn’t young. If you were a horse, Poppy would put you out to pasture.”

  “Good thing I’m not a horse,” he quipped, flashing her the lopsided grin that had every silly girl on the marriage mart swooning over him.

  She straightened. “Look, we’re almost there! I think I see the house!” She smoothed her skirts as she faced him. “Do I look too much a country mouse?”

  “Not at all. A city mouse perhaps—”

  “Pierce!”

  He laughed. “I’m joking, you little widgeon. You look perfect—eyes sparkling and cheeks blushing. That’s why I offered to marry you,” he teased.

  “You didn’t offer marriage. You offered a convenient arrangement wherein you got to have your cake and eat it, too.”

  He grinned. “Isn’t that always my plan?”

  She shook her head at him. He was hopeless. “I should hope I’m not yet so desperate that I need to marry for convenience.”

  “The trouble with you is you have your head in the clouds. You want some damned union of souls, with cooing doves flying overhead to bless the conjugal bed.”

  Surprised that he’d even noticed that about her, she said, “I just think two people should be in love when they marry, that’s all.”

  “What a disgusting thought,” he muttered.

  That was why they could never wed. Pierce had a distinct aversion to marriage. Besides, he preferred women with big bosoms and blond hair, neither of which she had. And he liked them wild, too. Pierce’s reputation was less than stellar—though she suspected that half of it was whipped up into a froth of scandal, outrage, and intrigue by the gossip of worried mamas whose daughters were enamored of his dark good looks and devil-may-care manner.