A Lady Unrivaled Read online

  Lord Cayton, it must be. Stafford’s cousin. And his scowl was exactly like the duke’s.

  Funny though . . . Stafford had never made her stomach knot up like it did just now, nor made heat surge when he happened to touch her. Not like it did when Lord Cayton’s hands slid from her back to the sides of her waist, testing her balance before releasing her.

  Would she be too much a ninny if she swooned a bit, just to force him to hold on a few seconds longer?

  Probably. So she forced herself to straighten her spine and say, “Pardon me.” At least she tried to say it, though her voice sounded odd—all fluttering and uncertain—to her own ears.

  Lord Cayton just stared at her, the scowl deepening, and let her go.

  “Hello, Cayton.” Brook—probably in the doorway, given the nearness of her voice—sounded only slightly amused. “Looking for Justin, or are you here only to bowl over my friend?”

  “Your friend.” His voice was exactly what a man’s voice should be. Rich and deep, but not too deep. A lovely, honeyed baritone—if tinged with a rather baffling accusation. “I thought I knew all your friends. I don’t believe I’ve met this one.”

  Ella may have been irritated at being spoken of as if she weren’t present, had his gaze not remained latched so unwaveringly upon her face. She could only hope the thundering of her heart wasn’t audible. Or visible. Were this one of the romantic tales she so loved, birds would start singing in chorus, Brook would vanish, and Lord Cayton would declare his instant, undying love.

  After, of course, he stopped frowning at her.

  Brook edged into Ella’s periphery. She, too, was frowning. “Of course you have. Haven’t you? This is Nottingham’s sister. Lady Ella Myerston.”

  “Lady Ella.” This was usually where the fawning began, where eyes lit with longing—not for her, but for her associations and dowry.

  Not Cayton. His eyes flashed some message she couldn’t decipher as he took a giant step back. He sketched a quick, abbreviated bow and focused his gaze on the space over her shoulder. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. Forgive me for bowling you over.”

  “I think we all know it was my fault. But I shall graciously forgive you, if you’re so determined to accept the blame.” Her smile felt a little off, a little shaky. He certainly wasn’t behaving like most men. But then, why should he? Lord Cayton was no stranger to dukes—he was grandson to the late Duke of Stafford, after all. She searched her mind for what else she knew about him.

  Those knots in her stomach turned heavy. He was the one who had been courting Brook’s cousin, Lady Melissa, only to toss her over for a rich, sickly heiress two years ago. His wife had died the very weekend Brice and Rowena wed, if she recalled aright, after giving birth prematurely to a daughter.

  Not her type of gentleman. Not at all her type of gentleman, if he cared more for shoring up his bank accounts than for true love.

  And, for that matter, if his true love were another woman.

  Which was just as well. It would be difficult enough to achieve her purpose here with Brook set against it—she hardly needed the distraction of possible romance. Her galloping heart would just have to calm itself and her logic get a rein on her imagination. Handsome as he may be, Lord Cayton was obviously not the man she’d been awaiting for her fairy-tale romance.

  Though when his gaze landed on her again, his frown smoothing out, that logic nearly fled. “Gracious of you indeed, my lady.” He edged backward another step, turning his face toward Brook. “I thought Stafford would be in the library this time of day.”

  “A report just arrived from his holdings in Africa—he’s looking it over in his study in the tower.”

  “Ah. Then I shall . . .” Taking another step backward, he cleared his throat. And darted another vaguely accusatory look Ella’s way. Which was so baffling she couldn’t help but find it fascinating. What could he possibly have against her when they’d never even met? “Good day, Duchess. My lady.”

  “Cayton, wait.” Brook took a step after him and with a hand on his arm halted his flight—he had already spun and looked ready to dash down the hallway at full speed. “You’re coming on Friday, aren’t you?”

  Friday—the Staffords were hosting their annual Cotswolds Ball. Ella had known about it before she invited herself for a visit. To hear Brook tell it, every family of note in the entire region came, some from three counties away.

  Cayton sighed. “Brook . . . ”

  “You need to get out once in a while, James.”

  Ella frowned at the use of his given name. True, Brook used them more than most, but Ella had never heard her do so in reference to this cousin of Stafford’s whom she didn’t much care for. She obviously had some motive as clandestine as Ella’s.

  Now the duchess tried on a persuasive smile. “Bring Addie with you, and plan on staying the night. She and Abingdon can play. You know how they love seeing each other.”

  “But—”

  “You haven’t missed the Cotswolds Ball in a decade—the neighborhood needs to see you. They all miss Adelaide. They need to speak to you of her. Of Addie.”

  His shoulders went a bit more rigid with each word she spoke. “Do you never tire of bullying me?”

  To Ella’s eye, Brook’s grin looked a bit forced. “Jamais. And your only recourse is to give in. I’ll not relent.”

  Mumbling something about the likelihood of being hunted down in one’s own home, Cayton jerked his head in a nod and strode away.

  Ella sidled next to Brook, watching him until he turned a corner. She couldn’t quite hold back the hum of appreciation. “I think the only time I’ve seen him was a glimpse across the lawn at the house party your father hosted, before I was out.” She had badgered her parents for a solid week to convince them to let her attend with Brice, only to have the party cut short the day they arrived by the death of Cayton and Stafford’s grandfather. “I didn’t realize what a handsome man he is.”

  Brook tilted her head to the side, but her face remained stony. “He does bear a certain resemblance to my husband, I admit.” With a blustery sigh, she looped her arm through Ella’s and led her toward the stairs at the opposite end of the hall. “You are the sister of a duke, Ella, and pretty as a picture. You can have any gentleman you want. Don’t set your sights on that one. For my sake, I beg you. I don’t think I can watch him break the heart of another of my dearest friends without taking drastic measures, and I would hate to leave poor little Addie an orphan.”

  And Brice accused Ella of being dramatic. “Lady Melissa, wasn’t it?”

  “Oui. He courted her for nearly a year, enticed her to lie to her mother and meet him in Eden Dale when she was visiting us at Whitby Park, made all manner of promises, declared his love, and then . . .” She snapped her fingers, and the muscle in her jaw pulsed from where she clenched her teeth. “Just like that, he marries another. Without even the decency to tell Melissa before it was announced in the papers. Without the decency to face her since, for that matter, though he claims to be a new man. Well.” She lifted her chin, the set of her mouth going smug. “That’s about to change.”

  Alarm beat a rapid pulse in Ella’s chest. She pulled Brook to a halt at the base of the stairs that led to the guest room where her riding habit waited. “What are you planning?”

  When Brook grinned in that particular way, trouble always followed. “Did I not mention that my cousin is due to join us tomorrow? I keep forgetting to bring it up, it seems. . . .”

  “Brook.” Admonition—and perhaps a dose of horror—saturated Ella’s tone. She leaned close so any passing servants wouldn’t hear her words. “Have you no compassion whatsoever? You’re going to sic your cousin on him without so much as warning him to brace himself? Are you mad? She’s terrifying.”

  Brook—who, granted, could make Melissa look tame in comparison—merely laughed. “That’s exactly what your brother said when she forced him to take her to Hyde Park the day she discovered Cayton was engaged.”r />
  Though Cayton was likely halfway up the tower stairs by now, Ella looked over her shoulder. “He probably has good reason for not wanting to face her—these days, I mean. Not that I intend to make excuses for how he treated her.”

  “Ella, I know you always want to see the best in everyone, but trust me—it’s high time those two clear the air. They will either end up engaged before the night is out or part amicably. Either way, an improvement over the current situation.”

  Engaged by the end of the week—was that what Brook’s cousin would be hoping for? Recalling those deep green eyes, the way his hair fell so perfectly over his forehead, Ella had to think it was. She knew for a fact that Lady Melissa Harrington had been collecting proposals for the last two seasons, turning them all down—and this must be why. Because she still loved Cayton, and now that his wife had passed away . . .

  Oh, drat it all. For just a moment there she had thought . . .

  Brook and Justin had found their love story while dealing with the Fire Eyes nonsense. Brice and Rowena too. For one instant, with his hands on her waist, she had imagined the same for herself. Love and adventure, hand in hand.

  But no. Life didn’t work that way, and fleeting impressions certainly couldn’t be trusted. That ache pulsing, Ella shook it all away. Even long-standing impressions couldn’t be trusted. If she hadn’t been able to gauge the nature of her oldest friend correctly, she certainly wouldn’t assume she saw anything but good looks in a man she’d known all of a blink.

  She’d do better to focus on diamonds.

  Two

  James Azerly, Earl of Cayton, paused his charge up the tower steps when he reached the landing with the window. He always stopped there, had since he was a boy old enough to stretch on his tiptoes to see out the panes of glass. From here, one could look for miles across the rolling Cotswolds. The Stafford pastures, now filled with horses grazing, running, leaping. And beyond it, the nearest village with its thatched-roofed stone cottages.

  It looked like a fairy world, had always looked like a fairy world, and he didn’t imagine it would change anytime in the near future. Gloucestershire had always been where he most felt at home, despite the fact that his own house was in Yorkshire. This view, right here, was the first thing he had sketched that he had taken any pride in. He still had that little drawing stashed somewhere, didn’t he?

  But no, he didn’t want to think about his drawings. Not just now. Not when doing so made him want to spit out a few curses. He settled for muttering, “What a blighted fool you are, James Cayton,” and forced himself to turn from the window and keep going.

  The door to his cousin’s study stood open at the top of the stairs. Cayton didn’t bother knocking, just strode in and sank into a chair with an indolent slouch that would have earned him a cuff from Mother, had she been here and not off on the Continent having a grand time without him.

  It had been his decision to stay behind, but at the moment he rather regretted it.

  He slouched a little more and tilted his head back so he could look at the plasterwork on the ceiling. “Your wife is a bully. I don’t know how you tolerate her, unless it’s because she can tolerate you.”

  At the familiar jest, Stafford snorted a laugh. “She only bullies those she loves—or who very much deserve it.” A paper rustled. “Take a look at this, will you, Cay? See if it adds up properly.”

  He obligingly sat up and took the piece of paper his cousin held out, noting the columns of figures upon it. Cayton had never spent any more time with numbers than he had to for his lessons—but when Stafford had helped him sort through his books awhile back, they had discovered he was rather good at mathematics.

  Proving that he could have done better with his estates than he had. He could have, had he bothered focusing upon them before he was forced to do so. But he had chosen failure, like with so many other things in his life.

  He glanced down the columns, tallying in his head as he went. “He’s off by two pence.”

  “Well then, I’ll obviously have to sack him.” Their grandfather might have—Stafford, however, reserved his wrath for those more deserving of it.

  As Cayton had been a time or two. He handed the paper back and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Why is she so determined to get me to this blasted ball on Friday? And don’t give me that line about never missing one. I hosted it for you while you were traveling two years ago, don’t forget. I know all about the long history of the Duke of Stafford’s famed public ball. That doesn’t mean anyone expects to see me here this year, so why is your wife insisting that I must attend?”

  “You think I understand the mysteries of Brook’s mind?”

  Cayton just stared at him. Blinked. Though his cousin didn’t do him the courtesy of looking up to see his spot-on glower. “According to you, dear cousin, yes. You do.”

  “I would never dare claim something so impossible.” He scribbled a note onto another paper before him and then looked up. “Just humor her, Cayton. And be glad she’s worrying for you rather than just grumbling about you as she did for so long.”

  He’d had no intention of attending the ball before, and certainly not after he’d collided with Lady Ella downstairs. She was sure to be there, and he had no desire to be if she were. Not that he had anything against the lady, of course. It was just . . .

  It was just that her hair was a shade of red so much deeper than he had recalled.

  That the line of her shoulder made his fingers itch for his sketching pencil.

  That her eyes danced with a light he thought for sure he had imagined.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to clear her image from his mind. When had he even seen her before? For the life of him, he could remember only her face, not the backdrop behind it. Which was dashedly disconcerting.

  He pushed himself to his feet and strode to the window that gave the best view of the Forest of Dean. Such an endless sea of greens and browns. He could fill a whole palette with varying shades and still not have enough of them to do it justice. “You failed to mention that Brook was expecting guests.”

  A crash from the desk brought Cayton spinning around—though he didn’t know whether to laugh or frown when he saw Stafford had knocked over a cup full of pens. His cousin wasn’t usually the type for clumsiness.

  Nor for wide eyes, like he had now. “She told you?”

  Suspicion dug in a few claws. They weren’t trying to make a match, were they? He couldn’t think so. Brook didn’t like him nearly enough to try to set him up with one of her dearest friends. But why this reaction? “I met her downstairs just now.”

  Stafford’s face moved back to neutral. “Oh, Lady Ella.”

  Another claw dug in. “Of course Lady Ella. Who did you think I meant?”

  “No one.” Stafford busied himself righting the pens.

  As if Cayton didn’t know him better than that. He moved to the desk, leaned on it. “Stafford. Who else is coming?”

  His cousin sighed. “She may have invited Regan and Thate to spend some time with us soon.”

  “Oh.” Cayton straightened, well able to imagine why they wouldn’t want to tell him that. He and Thate had never particularly gotten along—especially after Thate married Melissa’s sister and Cayton had gotten engaged to Adelaide. “When?”

  He would make his escape to Yorkshire before they arrived. With Regan and Thate would come too many thoughts of Melissa—of old dreams, old regrets. Too many hours spent wondering how she ever could have loved the man he had once been, when Cayton hated that man so much now. Too many hours when even lifting his brush to canvas would accomplish nothing, because every time he did he would remember that he’d never been truly honest about who he was. And how had he meant to make a life with a woman when he was afraid to show her his true self?

  He’d always been a blighted fool.

  “They won’t be coming for some time. After the Season.” Pens all back in place, Stafford looked up at him with that soft but unyielding
expression that meant he was about to deliver a speech about something he deemed to be for Cayton’s own good. “You needn’t run off just because Brook’s family is coming. You know that, surely. Water under the bridge and all that.”

  Water that would be happy to carry him away and drown him. “Call me a coward if you must, cousin. But I can’t face them. Not yet.” Not when even thinking about that family brought the waves of guilt crashing down—made him wish for a different past, one less shadowed with bad decisions and regret.

  Stafford rose. “They are her cousins. You are mine. At some point peace must be made. Cay, this is ridiculous.”

  “Easy for you to say.” He turned for the door. “I’d better get home before Addie wakes up.”

  “Cayton, you’re not that man anymore. Let them see that.”

  The words brought him to a halt a step from the exit, but they couldn’t quite overcome those crashing waves. His fingers curled into his palm. “You don’t understand, Stafford. You never hurt anyone like I’ve done.”

  “Haven’t I?”

  Cayton pivoted to face him again. “It hardly counts when you end up married to the woman you hurt.”

  “She might disagree.”

  Arguing with Stafford was always so unsatisfying. Yet somehow, he could never resist. “You and Brook merely had a misunderstanding. I quite deliberately broke Melissa’s heart. Quite deliberately chose my own gain above anyone else’s interests. Quite deliberately chose silence when speaking of my concerns about Pratt’s intentions could have saved your wife a lot of pain and tribulation.”

  There, the wince that said he’d hit a nerve. Though for the life of him, he wasn’t sure why he’d wanted to. Why could he never let it rest? Why could he not simply accept the forgiveness Stafford and Brook had offered him when he’d confessed to them six months ago that he’d heard a bit of Pratt’s plans to kidnap Brook but had said nothing?

  Perhaps because he simply couldn’t believe they meant it. Not when the duchess still looked at him as if she’d as soon kick him as say hello. And not when his cousin regarded him with such pain.