Captivated By a Lady's Charm (Lords of Honor #2)(5)

Under any other circumstances, Christian Villiers, the rather recent Marquess of St. Cyr would have found himself intrigued by a young lady, alone, and unchaperoned in the middle of a London street—a woman with crimson, bow-shaped lips and golden hair that harkened to summer sunshine. More particularly, there was the matter of his sister. And mother. And butler. One under butler. Four footmen. One groom. One valet. Cook— He resisted the urge to dig his fingertips into his temples to blot out the demmed headache that came in thinking of that catalogue of individuals.

Despite his reputation as unrepentant rogue, interested in nothing more than the widows and unhappily wedded ladies desiring a place in his bed, the ton would be shocked to discover he did, in fact, care about something a good deal more than his own pleasures. Namely, that list, which was about to become a good deal shorter if he didn’t find a way around his current situation.

Christian trained his gaze down the cobbled roads to the corner establishment of his solicitor’s offices. With annoyance thrumming through him, he tensed his jaw. Bloody futile meetings. Unless the man had since transformed himself into a bloody skilled wizard who could make money from nothing, then there was little benefit to this weekly appointment. The facts invariably remained the same. Christian was in dun territory. A growl rumbled up his chest and he quickened his stride.

Maxwell hurried to keep up. “Bah, you make for miserable company these days.” As a lifelong friend, the earl had taken it upon himself to telling Christian precisely what he thought about his of-late surliness.

“You are, of course, free to not join me in my weekly visits with Redding.”

His friend gave a mock shudder. “And be stuck behind with a too-doting mama and three younger sisters? I think not.” The hard pavement swallowed the sound of their footsteps as they moved with military precision through the quiet streets.

With a doting mama and just one younger sister, Christian could certainly well appreciate the need for freedom from those infernal, never-ending questions:

When do you plan to marry? Have you met a young lady whom you’d care to wed? Might I introduce you to a young lady who’d make you a splendid wife? Invariably, the questions all came ’round to the same matter—marital state. That interference on his mother’s part had become all the more frequent following his first, and last, meeting with the inherited solicitor, Redding, inside his also inherited townhouse. That whole keyhole listening business by his mother had led to weekly meetings at the oft-scowling solicitor’s office.

Maxwell sighed. “Regardless of your ill luck, I do not like this uncharacteristic solemnity to you.”

It would seem only his friend could see through the easy half-grin he’d adopted for Society’s benefit. “Forgive me if I am not more casual about my state of affairs,” he gritted out. “Not all of us were blessed with a fortune.” Those words were not spoken out of bitterness, but rather as a matter-of-fact. The recently titled earl had been deuced lucky.

Most would have considered themselves properly chastised. Maxwell merely grinned. “Hardly my fault I’ve found myself on the good side of fortune.”

“I would never begrudge you that,” he answered with an automaticity born of truth. For it was true. Some solace was to be found in the truth that at least one of them was not a miserable rotter in dire straits.

They turned right at the end of the street and continued on. No, Christian had long ago ceased bemoaning the circumstances in any aspect of his life: war, fortune, or in his case, a lack of fortune, the demons that haunted him for past crimes. Just as the earth turned and the tides ebbed and flowed, some would find themselves on the receiving end of good fortune. Others would not. Then, hadn’t the small trio of he, Maxwell, and the recent Duke of Blackthorne proven as much? Three friends since their days at Eton he, Maxwell, and the last sorry member of their childhood trio, Lord Derek Winters, had been born as lesser lords or spares to heirs. In fate’s fickle way, they’d all found themselves powerfully titled lords. Guilt crept in. Though Lord Derek Winters, the recent Duke of Blackthorne, would never be considered fortunate in any regard, thanks to Christian’s own failings.

Maxwell was not content to allow Christian the misery of his musings this day. “Would it help were we to speak of that blonde beauty on Bond Street you were casually speaking to without the benefit of a chaperone?”

“It would not,” he bit out. Except, the young lady’s awestruck visage slipped into his mind once more. The wide, blue eyes, enormous in her face, had been filled with such joy and innocence that a man could forever lose himself in their cornflower depths. That was if he’d not already been drowning in the state of his financial circumstances. When his tenacious friend opened his mouth to speak again, Christian glared him into no more mention of the innocent stranger. Little good could come in discussing an unchaperoned miss—little good that could solve his current financial affairs, anyway.

A carriage rumbled past, blotting out his friend’s deliberately drawn out sigh. “These are sorry days indeed when you are more eager to sit with your infernally depressing solicitor than attend the winsome young miss who’d been making eyes at you in the street.”

He cast a sideways glance at his friend. “I am so very pleased that one of us should find amusement in my bloody financial affairs,” he complained. Christian found little amusement in the grimness of his circumstances. His blasted inherited title had proven as dire as his previous debt-ridden one.