A Most Sinful Proposal

The Husband Hunters Club Series ~ Book #2

 

Abbey Thorne  Manor,

Surrey, England.

 

The first Lord Valentine Kent knew he had guests was when his butler, Morris, told him so.  Not that Valentine even knew Morris was hovering behind him until the butler loudly cleared his throat, a signal that he had been waiting for some time to be noticed.  Valentine frowned, the magnifying glass in one hand, the specimen of rosa foetida on the table in front of him.  The single yellow flower had arrived this morning from one of his contacts, carefully packed, but the sea journey had caused some damage—saltwater stained a corner of the box and the inside was damp.  He’d recognized the flower immediately and with the familiar pang of disappointment. 

There was a second parcel, as yet unopened, from a name he didn’t recognize.  Valentine did not find this unusual.  He received letters and parcels from all over the country containing specimens or descriptions of specimens for him to name.  He was one of the leading experts on roses.  But his true passion was one particular rose, a rose which was first brought to England seven hundred years ago.  It was his quest, his holy grail, his lifelong ambition, and he had an uneasy feeling that it was becoming an obsession.          

          Morris cleared his throat even more loudly.  Obviously the man wasn’t about to go away.  With a sigh of frustration, Valentine turned to face him.  “What is it, Morris?  I warn you, it had better be a matter of life or death.”  

“I apologize, my lord,” Morris droned, his bloodhound face drawn down into apologetic lines.  “I am always loath to interrupt you when you are busy, my lord.  But there is a young lady here to see Mr. George—”

          “Then, Morris, I suggest you fetch Mr. George.”

          “Believe me, my lord, I have tried,” Morris replied with feeling.  “Unfortunately Mr. George can’t be found, and yesterday he was most specific that when this particular young lady arrived she must be treated with courtesy.”

          Valentine sighed again.  Damn George!  Why wasn’t he here?  The last thing Valentine wanted to do was make polite with a stranger.  No doubt she was one of George’s silly little flirts, all hair and no brain.  George had inflicted someone similar on him once before and he’d made his younger brother swear he would never again invite anyone to Abbey Thorne Manor without first informing Valentine and allowing him enough time to escape to his rooms, or, if necessary, to leave the house altogether.

          “Who is this young lady who must be treated with courtesy?” he said gruffly, rising to his feet and shrugging his dark blue jacket back on over his white linen shirt, allowing it to settle comfortably across broad shoulders. 

Morris gave him a glassy look. 

Valentine was used to his butler’s silent disapproval when it came to his preference for comfort over fashion.  The jacket was an old favorite and a little shabby, the top buttons of his shirt were undone, and he’d neglected to put on a neckcloth this morning.  Well, he told himself irritably, it was just too bad.  George’s flirt could take him as he was or not at all.

          “Her name, Morris.”  

          “Eh, Miss Marissa Rotherhild, my lord,” Morris said, dragging his eyes away from his master’s ragbag appearance.  “She’s in the yellow parlor—”

          “Rotherhild, Rotherhild . . . why do I feel as if I know that name?”

Frowning, Valentine set off at a brisk stride, down the stairs and along the gallery, in the direction of the inappropriately named yellow parlor. 

His thoughts turned back to George.  The boy needed a firm hand and a tight leash and Valentine, his elder brother and in many respects a stand-in for their father, had always done his best.  But now that George was of age and had come into his own money he did very much as he liked.  If the boy would take an interest in something other than horses and gambling and women, Valentine would breathe a sigh of relief, but so far George showed no signs of doing so.

Not that there was any malice in him.  Good tempered, smiling and handsome, George was in no way a bad person.  He was, if anything, too good natured and easy going.  Valentine, who’d grown up during the war with Napoleon, couldn’t remember ever being as young as George sometimes seemed to be.  Of course George thought he was far too stuffy and serious.  Valentine always disputed it but now he wondered if there was some truth to George’s accusation.  With a frown he tried to recall the last time he’d laughed for the simple joy of living, and found he could not.   

          Morris darted ahead of him, slightly out of breath, to open the parlor door.  Valentine hardly broke stride as he entered the rather chilly room where George’s young lady was waiting.  His eyes narrowed as he realized, with annoyance, that there were actually two women.  One elderly and rather regal, with graying dark hair and a pair of black eyes with a surprisingly unladylike expression in them as she surveyed him.  And the other . . .

The other was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

          For a moment he stood and stared, at a complete loss for words.  His shocked and startled gaze noted her thick, curling dark hair, fastened up in some deceptively plain style beneath a jaunty little bonnet, her skin—smooth and pale as cream—with a tempting smidgeon showing where her dress buttoned below her throat.  She lifted her head to stare back at him, her large brown eyes framed by sweeping lashes, and her lips opened slightly, like unfurling rose petals.

“Miss Rotherhild, my lord,” Morris murmured at his side, as the silence stretched on.

Valentine realized he was being rude, and worse than that, his thoughts had turned poetical.  The last time they did that . . .  Well, he’d sworn never to allow it to happen again.

          “Miss Rotherhild,” he said, sounding gruff.  There was a pulse beating in his head, and a warmth spread over his body, making him aware of every inch of flesh and blood and muscle.  Of being male and very much alive. 

          “Lord Kent.”  Miss Marissa Rotherhild was watching him with a serious gaze and she came forward, holding her gloved hand toward him.

          Valentine stared at the hand until he felt a slight bump against his back—Morris of course—and hastily took her fingers in his and raised them automatically to his lips.  Her glove, and the flesh beneath, smelled of violets and woman. 

          “George . . . eh, that is, your brother invited me to your house party this weekend, my lord.”

          Through the fog in his brain Valentine made sense of her words.  “House party?”  He belatedly dropped her hand and spun around to fix his butler with a piercing look.  “Morris, what is this about a house party?”

          Morris paled.  “My lord, I swear I know nothing of any house party!  I would not dare allow such a thing to occur without your permission.”

          Marissa Rotherhild glanced at her elderly companion with some anxiety. 

          “Where is George?” Valentine went on in a grim voice.  “Find him, Morris.”

          Morris managed a shaky bow before trotting hastily away on his mission.

When Valentine turned back to face the room, he found two pairs of dark eyes watching him with an intensity that was unnerving.  “I’m sure we can sort out this misunderstanding as soon as George can be found, Miss Rotherhild and . . . eh . . . ?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.  Marissa said, “I beg your pardon, my lord, I haven’t introduced my grandmother, Lady Bethany.”

Valentine found himself under scrutiny from the lady with the lined face that had once been as beautiful as her granddaughter’s.  “How do you do, Lord Kent?  You have a fine old house.  People with houses like yours should open them up.  If you’re not having a weekend party then you should be.”

“I prefer my solitude, Lady Bethany.”

          Marissa surveyed him seriously from beneath her little hat.  “I hope you won’t be too cross with George, Lord Kent.  It must be a misunderstanding.  I’m sure he would never do anything to upset you on purpose.”

          “George is a thoughtless young pup,” he retorted sharply.

          She blinked.  “Oh no, you’re wrong about your brother.  He’s . . . he’s quite wonderful.”

          She blushed deeply as she realized what she’d said, and her elderly companion hid her mouth with a gloved hand, as if she might be laughing. 

          Valentine had never been jealous of George, he had no reason to be, but now there was a strange tightening in his chest.  Marissa Rotherhild was too good for his thoughtless brother.  For the first time in his life, Valentine found himself considering ways to steal her all for himself.