“Very good, my lord.”
Was that laughter he heard in his valet’s voice? Drat it all. Nettle might be the first, but he wouldn’t be the last one to find Geoff’s situation ludicrous.
His life would have been much easier if his father had simply arranged a marriage for him. But Geoff hadn’t wanted that. He’d wanted to select his own wife—and look where it had gotten him. In a pickle, that’s where.
Chapter Nine
Geoff paced his small parlor. There must be a better, more secure way to gain Miss Turley as his wife.
He stopped. Even though his father would not arrange a match . . . that did not mean Miss Turley’s father could not arrange a match for her. That would make courting her unnecessary and the whole process much quicker.
He tried to remember what he knew of the viscount. Unfortunately, not much, except that rumor had it he wanted his daughter to wed and wed well. There was nothing unusual about that. What man did not wish for a good match for his children? Geoff didn’t even know if Lord Turley was in Town. He certainly had not been at tea that day or at any of the entertainments.
It appeared that her brother was more in evidence than her father. Did that mean he would have to apply to Gavin Turley? Then again, he had encouraged Geoff’s interest in Miss Turley. On the other hand, her brother was a good friend of Littleton’s and seemed to be promoting a match there as well. Perhaps Turley did not care who she married as long as she did. Even Geoff could not deny that Littleton was extremely eligible. Geoff just wished the man would be eligible with some other lady. Then again, perhaps Miss Turley favored him. He had noticed how her eyes sparkled when he had first discussed the overseas posting with her. Yet, lately, she had not seemed quite as interested.
He could not lose her.
The best way forward was to approach Lord Turley immediately, before she decided that she would rather remain in England. The problem was how the devil was he to find the man?
White’s or Boodle’s. His lordship was bound to frequent one or the other. Unless he was a Whig. Unthinkable. If Gavin Turley was a member of White’s, so must his father be.
Grabbing his hat and cane, Geoff left his rooms and headed for his club. Even if Lord Turley wasn’t there, Geoff could discover if he frequented White’s and, if so, how often. Or if he’d have to visit Boodle’s as well.
Several minutes later he ascended the steps to that most venerable of gentlemen’s clubs—according to his father—and said to the master, “Good evening, can you tell me if Lord Turley is here at present?”
The man bowed. “No, my lord. He usually comes in the morning for the news from the Continent.”
Geoff peered past the master, and not seeing anyone else he knew said, “Thank you. I’ll return tomorrow.”
On the way home, he revised his plans. He would send the flowers to Miss Turley—much less awkward than handing them to her personally—with some sort of extravagant message. An homage to her luminous skin or some such thing. Come to think of it, her skin was extremely fine. It reminded him of silk or a rose petal. Would it feel as soft? Once again, he found himself wanting to touch her. Knead her plump breasts, and take her nipples into his mouth. She always smelled of lavender and lemons. What would she taste like? With any luck, soon he’d discover for himself how soft she was.
He wanted to explore her mouth and make her writhe with desire for him alone. His cock hardened as he thought of plunging into her wet silk. He groaned. He had to stop thinking about her before lust for Miss Turley had him doing something stupid.
But her hair. Tonight the way her curls had been arranged, her tresses reminded him of pale gold glinting in moonlight. Her laugh had been light and airy.
Good Lord!He was becoming poetical. That would never do. The last time he’d attempted to write poetry, his sister had gone into whoops and asked if he was really planning to send it to a lady.
He would have to write a nice note to go with the flowers though. Geoff would have them delivered early. Then he’d go to White’s early in the morning and remain there until Lord Turley arrived. Once they’d spoken, and Geoff made his intentions clear, he and Miss Turley would become betrothed, and he’d have her in his bed. Once that happened, she would be his.
* * *
“Where is he?” Elizabeth had forced herself not to look for Lord Harrington when he was not by her side.
“Left in a huff,” Aunt Bristow said, her eyes sparkling wickedly. “Gavin, I was not at all happy with you when you didn’t return as quickly as I wanted you to, but I think you concocted exactly what was needed to bring Harrington up to scratch.”
“I wish I could take all the credit,” her brother said. “But it was Littleton here that first had the idea.”
The very handsome, but completely rakish Lord Littleton inclined his head.
Elizabeth still had trouble believing that his lordship had agreed to help her, and now to find out it was his idea . . . “How? I mean, what made you think of it? And why?”
He turned a pair of warm green eyes on her, and, once again, she knew why the gentleman was so dangerous. Gavin had warned her not to fall in love with his friend. Fortunately, her taste ran to blue eyes and blond hair.
One particular pair of blue eyes at that.
“My grandmother used to tell the story,” Lord Littleton began, “of how she and my grandfather married. Apparently, Littleton men are famous for attempting to avoid the parson’s trap. Yet it turned out that he liked her a great deal, but couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. One of her cousins visited with a friend and they hatched a plot to make my grandfather jealous, and it worked. Once Grandfather saw that another gentleman might be interested in my grandmother, he made it his objective to marry her.”
“How very devious.” No wonder her brother and his lordship were so certain this scheme would work. “Was he happy that he wed her?”
