If Ever I Should Love You Read online

  Roman stared down into the amber liquid in his glass. He was disturbed that the thought of Leonie marrying another man bothered him. “What happened?”

  “He was the duke I mentioned who ran off with an actress.”

  That sparked another sharp bark of laughter from Roman. Poor Leonie, so lovely and yet fate always played her the losing hand. Then again, he had knowledge that she was often a victim of her own schemes.

  Still, she had been special, unique . . . and with that memory came a surge of energy he could not countenance save that he had a desire to see her again.

  “How do I meet these heiresses?”

  Thaddeus sat up as if surprised he had persuaded his godson. “They will be at the Marquis of Devon’s rout tonight. I have an invitation and you may come along. Everyone will be there.”

  “Are you including Erzy and Malcolm in ‘everyone’?”

  “Indubitably.”

  “Good, then maybe I shall have the opportunity to smash one of them in the face.” At Thaddeus’s sound of distress, he said, “I will be all that is proper. I wouldn’t want a scandal, would I?”

  “Why do I have a feeling you have already been involved in one?” Thaddeus asked, gathering the gambling debts.

  Roman merely smiled his answer. He took the chits from his godfather. “I will come round at seven. Is that good?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Leaving his godfather’s office, Roman had more purpose in his step. Leonie Charnock had put it there.

  Roman found himself anticipating a long overdue reckoning, and the only thing that would save her was her dowry.

  She owed him at least that.

  Chapter 2

  Anything could happen when Everyone of Importance gathered, and they were all here for the Marquis of Devon’s ball. The room was a crush. The air was filled with expectation and the gossiping hum of guests waiting for the receiving line to end and the dancing to begin.

  Leonie Charnock stood next to one of the giant papier-mâché pots filled with long-handled, gilt fans like those used by the ancient Egyptians. The Marchioness of Devon’s theme for the evening was “The Nile,” and apparently these pots in the four corners of the room were to give the sparkling company an impression of being on that famed river.

  All Leonie felt was boredom. She was here, dressed in muslin and lace, her hair piled high on her head, to face another year of being treated little better than a fishing lure. She understood her role. She was to act a certain way and speak in a certain manner while her person and her substantial dowry were dangled in front of eligible bachelors in hopes of a strike. In truth, with the money involved, she could have been dressed in sackcloth and her head shaved and the men would seek her out. The poor men.

  Wealthy ones with title and influence felt themselves too good for her, although they didn’t seem to mind staring at her breasts.

  The ritual of husband hunting was growing tiresome—especially since, if she had her way, she would never marry. She wanted nothing to do with men and their lust, and yet she was trapped in the expectations of Society.

  After all, if she didn’t marry, what would become of her? Single women had no power.

  Leonie longingly watched a tray of iced wine pass by her to be offered to others. Proper young women avoided anything that could lead to indiscreet behavior. She was free to enjoy all the orgeat, an almond syrup mixed with lemonade, she could consume. She could possibly have one glass of iced wine over the supper that would be served later without damaging her reputation. Anything more would make her the subject of gossip and her father would be furious since there were enough rumors about the family already.

  She told herself the lack of wine didn’t matter. She’d had a good nip of brandy before she’d left home, furtively taken from one of the many decanters in her father’s house. She’d learned a wee bit could take the edge off life, especially for events like this one where she was to be anyone other than herself. It also made living with secrets a touch easier—

  “Here you are.” Her friend Willa came up beside her. Her glossy dark hair was threaded with pearls. Her dress, like Leonie’s, was a demure white that was excellent for her skin tone. Because of her petiteness, she had a habit of looking up at the world around her. It gave her an air of perpetual curiosity that was actually quite true. Willa was far more intelligent than anyone credited her.

  Leonie had witnessed more than one incident where people, men in particular, seemed to patronize Willa because of her height. Her friend was not afraid to show them the sharp side of her tongue.

  She leaned toward Leonie and whispered, “Is it my imagination or does this year’s crop of debutantes appear younger and hungrier than ever before?” She nodded to a gaggle of young women and their mothers, excitedly comparing notes and sizing up rivals. There was a burst of nervous giggles over something that had been whispered by another. They sounded as if they were pigeons about to take off.

  “We were never that young,” Leonie assured her.

  “Hopefully we weren’t as goose-ish. Is your mother here?”

  “She came with us . . . but has probably left. I haven’t seen her for the past fifteen minutes.” Her mother always arrived with Leonie and her father, but often slipped away from whatever rout they attended to meet a lover. “I believe she is bedding a member of the Horse Guard. He might be younger than I am.”

  Willa made no comment other than to offer a consoling glance. She knew Leonie hated pity. “Father escorted me. He’s in the card room already.”

  “As is my father.”

  Willa said, “Oh, look, Cassandra has arrived.”

  The two of them turned toward the receiving line to see Cassandra finish her last curtsey.

  One couldn’t miss her. She was the tallest woman in the room and she did not stoop like so many others would have done. Better yet, she piled her gold curls high on her head to be artfully held in place with jeweled pins. The jewels were probably real. Any other reasonable person would have used paste but Thomas Holwell, MP, wanted one and all to see his wealth.

  With just a green ribbon woven in her hair, Leonie feared she appeared drab next to her friends, and the thought amused her.

  Cassandra spied them. She gave a small wave and began making her way toward them. The three friends took a moment for welcoming kisses on the cheek.

  Leonie gave her friends considering looks. “Tonight, the two of you remind me of goddesses. Willa is the moon goddess Selene and, Cassandra, you are like Demeter, queen of the harvest.”

  “What a flight of fancy you are on tonight,” Cassandra declared. “How shall we christen Leonie, Willa? Aphrodite?”

  Leonie winced. “Too obvious. And nothing could be further than the truth. I’m far from the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “You say that,” Cassandra said, “however, I watch men look at you as if you were a spoonful of honey they’d like to drip into their mouths.”

  “Or a flower they would like to pollinate,” Willa agreed.

  Heat rushed up to Leonie’s cheeks. This sort of talk embarrassed her. “Now you are being silly. Men hardly notice me.”

  “You captured the interest of a duke last year,” Cassandra reminded her.

  “One who was so entranced he jilted me for an actress,” Leonie answered. It had not been pleasant being the target of spiteful gossip after Baynton had withdrawn his offer. But the truth was, Leonie had been relieved that she didn’t have to marry. In fact, if she had her way, she would rather die a spinster. She had no desire to submit to a man. Not ever again—

  For the briefest of seconds, the bad memory threatened to overwhelm her. She glanced at the sterling punch bowl on its table across the room. There was quite a crowd in front of it. She knew better than to join them—

  “Persephone,” Willa declared. “You are like Demeter’s daughter, who was stolen to the underworld, Leonie. You appear so at peace and yet there is this sorrow about you.”

  Dear
Willa, too perceptive.

  Leonie forced a smile. “What nonsense do you speak?”

  “I agree,” Cassandra said breezily. “Leonie is the goddess of Love, not the Underworld.”

  Willa shrugged, unintimidated by their responses. Instead, she asked, “Are we playing the game this year?”

  Leonie had forgotten the game and she had devised it.

  “Please tell me we are going to play the game again this year,” Cassandra agreed. “Father went on all afternoon about my failure to attract a husband and of what would happen if I don’t finally marry. I know Helen put him up to it.” Helen was Cassandra’s stepmother. “I need something to make all of this”—she waved a gloved hand to include the dazzling company—“more interesting. I’m fatigued of the whole thing and we haven’t even started.”

  Leonie’s thoughts exactly. She felt her spirits lift.

  The “game” had started as a jest between them, a friendly wager. Each one of them had placed five pounds in a reticle and whoever received the most points by the end of the Season became the winner. The points were easy to earn since they were assigned to different acts of courting. It was a test of flirting prowess but it also helped keep their fathers appeased in the belief their daughters were doing what all eligible young ladies should to catch a husband.

  To make the game more interesting, they had decided points could only count for one particular gentleman. They had chosen Lord Stokes because his name had been mentioned most by their fathers.

  Willa had won the wager. Stokes had been like wax in her hand until his family informed him they would not support such a match. He’d claimed to be heartbroken but then he quickly offered for Lady Amanda White, a slender blonde with bloodlines better than the king’s. She didn’t have Willa’s fortune but she had dowry enough for Stokes.

  Leonie had barely registered a point because of the Duke of Baynton’s interest. She’d had to play the demure, shy virgin while he’d been evidently carrying on with his actress.

  “The game would make this Season vastly more entertaining,” Cassandra predicted.

  “And why do you say that?” Leonie asked.

  “Why? Because of the Duke of Camberly,” Cassandra answered, and Willa quickly nodded.

  “Camberly? I’ve not heard of him,” Leonie said.

  “You wouldn’t have heard of the former duke. He was frightfully old,” Willa said.

  Cassandra nodded. “Yes, and his sons died before him, leaving a grandson to inherit. A young, reputably handsome grandson.”

  “Have you met him?” Leonie asked.

  “Few have,” Willa answered. “He is supposed to make his first appearance in Society tonight.”

  “He is a poet.” Cassandra could not keep the excitement from her voice. She was a great fancier of the arts and dreamed of holding an important salon à la française. To that end, she’d held a few salons in her father’s front room. They had been small gatherings where every destitute poet in London tried to take advantage of her. Willa and Leonie faithfully attended as good friends should and they made up the majority of the crowd attending. Cassandra’s salons were not popular.

  MP Holwell was there as well. He chaperoned with such disapproval on his face the poets never lingered in his daughter’s presence, although Cassandra had given her pin money to more than a few of them.

  “Is the duke wealthy?” Leonie, ever practical, had to ask.

  “He lacks sufficient funds,” Willa said.

  “Which makes him an excellent quarry for our game,” Cassandra concluded. “He will want to know us. And he is a duke. Father has mentioned him several times to me. I’m surprised yours hasn’t,” she said to Leonie.

  “Since Baynton, Father has not been pleased with me. He acts as if it is my fault the duke even had a paramour.”

  “Then flirting with a new duke should please him,” Willa said. “My father is like Cassandra’s. All he can talk about is Camberly.”

  “Well, then, Camberly, it is,” said Leonie. “One point for a glance—everyone is on their honor for this. Two points for an introduction.”

  “That should be easy enough,” Cassandra said. “My father is already out and about on my behalf, as is Helen. I might win this game—”

  “Win what game?” a female voice demanded.

  Leonie, Willa, and Cassandra turned to face Lady Bettina Warwell, a slender redhead with an ambitious spirit. She was accompanied by a trio of young women. “What game are the Spinster Heiresses up to?” she laughingly said to her companions. “I wonder if it has anything to do with a certain new duke?”

  Leonie hated the nickname the “Spinster Heiresses.” Someone had dubbed them with it last Season and it had quickly caught on. Leonie wasn’t so certain Lady Bettina hadn’t been behind the taunt. She certainly used it often enough—especially against Cassandra. For some reason, Bettina enjoyed making fun of her more than Willa and Leonie. Perhaps because they could hold their own better than Cassandra, who cared very much what people thought of her.

  However, Leonie was not going to let her friends be mocked. Stepping forward, she said, “Good evening, my lady. Enjoying your second Season?” But she really wasn’t as good at delivering withering set downs as Lady Bettina and they both knew it.

  Lady Bettina shrugged as if it was the nothing it was. “Tell me about your game. Perhaps we’d like to play.” Her friends nodded their heads.

  For all the world, they would appear as a group of young women having a pleasant chat while waiting for the receiving line to end and the dancing to begin. No one else would feel the undercurrent of malice born out of jealousy. If Lady Bettina learned about the game, then she would spread the word throughout the ton . . . unless she was a part of it.

  Had Leonie thought this Season would be a bore?

  She’d been wrong.

  A delicious challenge formed in her mind. “Do you think it wise we speak here and so openly? Perhaps we should adjourn to the necessary room?” She referred to the room set aside for the women to have a moment of privacy.

  With a nod to Cassandra and Willa, Leonie began walking in that direction. A few steps along, Cassandra grabbed Leonie’s arm. “Are you mad? She is the bitterest of souls and not to be trusted.”

  “Is she following?” Leonie asked.

  “Yes, they all are.”

  “Then have faith in me,” Leonie answered. “This will be fun.”

  Cassandra made a worried sound but both she and Willa marched right into the necessary room behind Leonie.

  This early in the evening, the room was quiet. Leonie motioned Lady Bettina closer and said, “We have been plotting a wonderful game, a flirting game.”

  “A flirting game?” Lady Bettina tilted her head with interest. Her friends were paying attention as well. They were all daughters of lesser nobles and, Leonie realized, just as desperately caught up in this chase to find a husband as the Heiresses were.

  “Yes, flirting, which is what we are expected to do anyway. It keeps our skills sharp,” Leonie said easily. “We assign points to different actions—five points if he calls on you, three points for each dance. That sort of thing. Every participant offers five pounds, which Miss Reverly keeps as banker, and at the end of the Season the one with the most points is declared the winner.”

  “This is rather immoral, isn’t it?” one of Lady Bettina’s friends said.

  “In what way? The men do it,” Lady Bettina answered, surprising Leonie with her quick acceptance. “What do you think they write in the betting books at their clubs? They wager on us all the time.” She looked at Cassandra. “Are you doing this?”

  Cassandra’s brows came together as if she wasn’t certain she could trust Lady Bettina but she nodded.

  “It adds a bit of interest in the Season,” Willa said.

  “But if anyone found out—” the girl who’d spoken up said, but Lady Bettina cut her off.

  “Then they would think we were resourceful. Miss Charnock is correct. We m
ust do these things anyway, why not have some sport with it. Five pounds, you say?”

  Leonie nodded. “And the points only apply to one gentleman of our choosing. This Season the object of our affections will be the newly named Duke of Camberly.”

  Lady Bettina’s eyes lit up at the name, as did her friends’.

  Oh, this Season was going to be fun. “So, is the game on?” Leonie asked.

  “Starting this evening?” Lady Bettina said.

  “It must. Camberly will be making his appearance,” Leonie answered.

  Lady Bettina held out her gloved hand. “Then let the game begin and may the best woman win.”

  Leonie shook her hand, thinking she had seen her father do this over horse racing many a time. She rather liked this cool efficiency.

  The door to the necessary room opened. A young matron with a velvet cap stuck her head in the room and then said in a furious whisper, “Bettina, Mother and I have been looking for you everywhere. Camberly has arrived. He is almost through the receiving line and the dancing will begin. You should be out here.”

  “I’m coming,” Lady Bettina assured her, the light of competition in her eyes. She was out the door in a blink followed by her friends.

  Willa looked at Leonie. “Well, now what?”

  “Now we have a true competition going on.”

  Cassandra shook her head. “She won’t play fair. I’ve known her most of my life and she cheats. She’ll do anything to win.”

  “Perhaps we will as well,” Leonie said. “When I started this evening, I feared I wouldn’t make it through another Season . . . but now? You won’t claim victory so handily this time, Willa.”

  “Men like dark haired women,” Willa countered good-naturedly. “That purse is mine.”

  “Or mine.” Cassandra started for the door. “I won’t let Bettina win. I. Will. Not.” She opened the door.

  “And we will help you,” Leonie promised as she went through. “In truth, it is us against them.”

  “Of course it is,” Willa said thoughtfully. “Well played, Leonie. Bettina won’t say anything about overhearing us because she is a part of it. Her friends will be quiet because she is involved.”