Chapter Nine

"Y ou must learn to rein in that temper, old man," Ravenglass told Thorne. "You are bloody well fortunate I was able to negotiate a ceasefire with Montagne's second. However, after speaking with the man, I concluded that the calculating lord would much rather ruin you in court than shoot you. Thankfully, he seemed sorely disinclined to accept your challenge."

"I am sure he would rather deal with me in court instead of on the dueling field." Thorne paced back and forth in front of the parlor window, watching for the messenger he had sent to the Broadmere residence. "A civil suit would also drag Lady Myrtlebourne through the mud—thereby allowing the man to kill two birds with one stone."

"What the devil has you so agitated? You are watching the street as if expecting an attack at any moment."

Thorne halted his pacing and fixed a bleak stare on his friend. "I sent her a letter."

"And who, may I ask, is her ?"

"Who do you think?"

The viscount angled both his dark brows higher. "Surely not Lady Blessing? Not after last night."

"The only thing I did last night was defend the lady's honor." Although, if Thorne were honest about it, he had probably done the sweet lady's reputation more harm than good. There had been a great many whisperings after she fled his presence in the crowded drawing room.

Ravenglass didn't comment, just stared at him with a damning look that demanded honesty.

"Fine," Thorne ceded while raking both hands through his hair. "The woman haunts me—my dreams and every waking hour as well. I can think of nothing but her."

"We always want that which we cannot have."

"But I could have her," Thorne said softly. "If I knew for certain I would not become my father."

"All you must do is decide not to be your father," Ravenglass said. "The man's cruelty toward your mother was not some disease or malformity passed from father to son like some unholy birthmark. You have never been cruel by nature. All you need do is set your mind to controlling that temper of yours and give up your dabbling with other men's wives. It is a matter of will—not an inherited curse."

"But that is where you are wrong, old friend." With his gaze still locked on the street in front of the townhouse, Thorne slowly shook his head. "It would appear my grandsire was the same sort of ruthless churl—as was his father before him." A throat-tightening surge of anticipation shot through him as his footman rounded the corner and approached the house at a hurried stride. "Yon comes Donnelly—I told him to wait for an answer from Lady Blessing."

Ravenglass joined him at the window and frowned. "If his expression is any indication, your letter was not well received."

Thorne feared that as well. Unlike most servants, Donnelly's face betrayed all his thoughts and feelings. He was a good man and trustworthy, but one always knew, or at least had a fair idea of, what the lad was about to say.

Donnelly rushed into the parlor, his light blue eyes downcast and his freckled face filled with worry. He tipped a quick nod as he held out a tightly folded letter bearing a wax seal as dark blue as a midnight sky. "The lady's response, my lord—and there is more."

"More?" Thorne braced himself.

Donnelly bobbed his head and kept his gaze locked on the floor. "Yes, my lord. Their butler said it was very important I relay the rest of her ladyship's message word for word and get it right."

"I see." Thorne resettled his stance. "And the rest of the lady's message is?"

The footman nodded and cleared his throat. "Her ladyship did not read your letter in its entirety. Halfway through the paragraphs of indecision, she found herself compelled to toss it into the fire. Her words, my lord. Not mine."

Thorne stared at the footman while slowly rubbing his thumb along the hard edge of Lady Blessing's response. "Was that all, Donnelly?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Thank you. You may go and see to your tea now. I am sure Cook has it waiting."

"Thank you, my lord." The lad bowed his way out of the parlor, his relief palpable.

"Paragraphs of indecision?" Ravenglass repeated with a dubious look. "What the devil did you put in that letter?"

"Never mind." Thorne slid his finger under the seal and unfolded the reply. As he read through it, one sentence stood out; one string of words gave him the encouragement he had both hoped and feared she would offer him: I would welcome an open and honest conversation with you, but only if it ended in a clear, logical course of action rather than all this waffling about and begging for an undetermined amount of time. The lady was well within her rights to demand such. As she had said, she was not some bundle of herbs to be hung from a shelf until cured.

He handed it over to Ravenglass and strode across the parlor to the liquor cabinet to pour them both a drink. As he returned and handed the glass of port to his friend, he said, "I must have her."

"You understand that to have her, you must have her as your wife and nothing less?" The viscount handed back the note, glaring at Thorne with an intensity that spoke volumes.

"Yes," Thorne said, then lifted his glass. "From now on, the only begging I shall do will be for her hand in marriage." He prayed he was doing the right thing—following his heart rather than fearing his ancestry. And if he couldn't control himself, if against every precaution he became the next Knightwood monster…

He set his glass aside. "I have an oath to ask of you," he told Ravenglass.

His old friend scowled at him as if already knowing what he was about to say. "Do not do this. I am not that strong of a man."

Thorne shook his head. "I know better. You are the most honorable man I have ever known. That is why I ask that you end me if I become my father."

"I cannot." Ravenglass downed his drink, then strode over to the cabinet and poured himself another. "Do not ask it of me. You are the brother I never had."

"If you feel you cannot end my life, then turn me over to the press gangs. Impressment would be just as effective."

Ravenglass glared at him. "You are not your father."

"Promise me." Thorne needed to hear the words that would reassure him Lady Blessing would never know the misery his mother had endured.

"Will it give you peace if I agree to this ridiculous request?"

"It will."

Ravenglass heaved a defeated sigh and bowed his head. "If you become the next Knightwood monster, I will turn you over to the press gangs myself."

Thorne clapped a hand onto his old friend's shoulder. "Thank you."

"You can thank me by never making me keep this promise."

"I will do my best," Thorne said quietly.

"See that you do." Ravenglass thumped his empty glass down onto a table and charged out of the room.

*

Thorne nervously patted the pristine white folds of his cravat as he eyed the front door of the Broadmere residence. Three days ago, Lady Blessing had said she would be open to an honest, forthright, and productive conversation. So be it. By the time they finished speaking today, there would be no doubt in the dear lady's mind that she had stolen his heart, and he wished her to be his wife.

It had taken every ounce of patience and control he possessed to grant her three days to somewhat cool down from his earlier indecisive behavior that had, admittedly, been rude and selfish. But now he was determined to be the man she deserved, and he hoped she would be receptive. He strode up the front steps and used the brass door knocker to request admittance to the impressive townhouse that held his priceless treasure.

The Broadmeres' ancient butler opened the door the slightest bit and eyed him with an almost insulting scrutiny before swinging the barrier open wide. With a less-than-enthusiastic bow and wave of his hand, he invited Thorne inside. "Do come in, Lord Knightwood, and join the others. I believe there might be a seat available. If not, I shall see that one is fetched for you."

"The others?"

The servant inclined his head toward the hallway lined with chairs filled with enough members of the peerage to hold a session in the House of Lords. "Yes, my lord," the butler said. "I shall inform His Grace that you are here."

"But I am here to see Lady Blessing," Thorne said. "Not His Grace."

The butler slowly blinked like a great horned owl just waking for its nightly hunt. "His Grace has chosen to receive all gentleman callers before the ladies select who they wish to see. Do be seated, my lord." After a pointed nod at the last empty chair, the servant slowly ambled down the hallway and disappeared through a set of double doors that Thorne remembered led to the parlor.

"Here for Lady Blessing, I presume?" asked the rat-faced Earl of Alcester—a man Thorne had never liked.

"I am," Thorne replied, and left it at that. Instinct warned him to weigh every word, because it would no doubt be twisted and used against him in what looked to be a robust competition to win his lady fair.

"Yes, well—from the look of this hall, that particular Broadmere lady appears to have her choice of husbands," said the Earl of Cedarswik—a man rumored to have a cruel streak worse than that of Thorne's ancestors. "However, I daresay I would settle for one of the other sisters as well. Lady Blessing's dowry might be the largest of the seven, but all are quite amply funded, I am sure." He kicked back in his chair and snorted. "I would prefer to avoid the rather large sister, though. Fatness is for dowries, not women." His haughty smile became more of a malicious sneer. "Of course, I could take the fat one and cure her of that repugnance. I feel sure it would make her more docile."

"Keep her fat, old man. More to hang on to while begetting an heir." Viscount Rampisham snickered like a hissing teakettle. "I much prefer fat over plain. Did you see the one constantly scribbling notes and stuffing them into her reticule? What a drab little thing that one is!"

"Yes," Alcester said, wrinkling his nose as though finding the memory distasteful. He twitched an arrogant shrug. "Two culls out of seven is not bad odds, though. That still leaves five acceptable pets from which to choose."

Thorne had held his tongue as long as he could. A relentless, pounding outrage forced him to his feet. To hell with controlling his temper. How dare these men speak about Lady Blessing's sisters in such a manner—and in the hall of the ladies' home, no less! He grabbed Alcester by the lapels, yanked the sputtering man to the door, and shoved him outside. "Do not return or I shall see that His Grace discovers you are a man who does not pay his vowels!"

He charged back and snatched Rampisham up out of his seat. "Out with you as well, you vile bastard. How dare you insult these fine ladies! I shall advise His Grace of your black-hearted ways."

After sending the viscount stumbling down the front steps, he headed back for Cedarswik.

The shocked earl threw his hands in the air and ran for the door. "Have you no decency?"

"You have the gall to ask for decency? Bah!" Thorne strode after him, chasing the man down the steps to ensure he carried himself away from the Broadmere residence. "I know all about you, Cedarswik, and His Grace soon shall too!"

He went back inside to find Lord Pellington and the Duke of Hethersby staring at him with their jaws dropped. However, neither they nor the other four men, whose names Thorne couldn't recall, had insulted the Broadmere ladies, so he chose to leave them alone.

"I refuse to tolerate such crude behavior," he said, daring any one of them to disagree.

The six murmured their like-mindedness while watching him with a healthy share of leeriness.

As Thorne straightened his waistcoat and yanked his jacket properly back in place, the slightest movement to his left and the click of a closing door made him turn. He stared at it, wondering which room it was, because someone had used it as a sly place to hide and observe the gentlemen waiting to be seen.

A sense of doom about his outburst of temper filled him—even though he would do it again if given the choice. If observed without benefit of the entire situation, his ousting of those three could be mistaken for something other than defending the ladies. He raked a hand back through his hair that he had meant to have trimmed to a more respectable length before today. But the thought had slipped his mind—as many thoughts had. All that remained firmly in his awareness was the delightful Lady Blessing.

With a heavy sigh, he sank back into his seat and waited for one or more of the Broadmere servants to appear to show him out as he had so unceremoniously shown out the others. At the sound of footsteps, he stared straight ahead and waited.

A rumbling harrumph revealed the owner of the slow, steady footsteps was none other than the aged butler. "Lord Knightwood," the man said in a deep, raspy voice one might imagine hearing in a graveyard at midnight.

Thorne stood and faced the butler, ready to accept the result of his actions. The old codger would no doubt be pleased, since he had always left Thorne with the distinct impression that he did not approve of his calling upon Lady Blessing.

The servant's mouth twitched at the corners as if he struggled to keep from smiling. He lifted his hand and pointed at the parlor doors. "This way, my lord. His Grace will receive you now."

"But I was here well before Lord Knightwood," Lord Pellington whined.

"Quite right, Lord Pellington." The butler tipped the subtlest of nods. "And His Grace thanks you for calling but finds his schedule quite full for the remainder of the afternoon." He turned to the Duke of Hethersby and bowed. "However, Your Grace, His Grace would be delighted if you would join him and his sisters for tea—along with Lord Knightwood. All others here are heartily thanked for calling and are more than welcome to leave their cards and perhaps call another day."

After a great deal of huffing, puffing, and grumbling, the hallway cleared except for the duke. The gentleman smiled as he rose from his seat and fell in step beside Thorne. "It would appear that today is our day, Knightwood," he said in a lowered voice. "By the way, well done earlier. I should have stepped in and helped, and now I regret I was not bold enough to do so."

"It is indeed our day," Thorne answered somewhat stiffly, unsure what else to say. He knew very little about Hethersby other than the man was rumored to keep to himself and was extraordinarily quiet for an unmarried duke. "I am sure you would have eventually risen to the occasion had I not beaten you to it. We must consider ourselves fortunate, Your Grace."

"Indeed, we should."

The duke hesitated and, surprisingly, seemed somewhat embarrassed as Thorne slowed to allow the man to enter the parlor first. After all, it was only proper. A duke was highest in the pecking order—well above a baron. It appeared the rumors about Hethersby might be true. The man did indeed appear to be a quiet, almost humble sort.

Damn him . Thorne flexed his fingers and forced himself to remain calm. Of those who'd gathered to vie for Lady Blessing's hand, this gentleman unsettled him the most. He prayed one of the other ladies would catch Hethersby's eye and steer the man's attention away from Lady Blessing.

As they entered the parlor, all seven Broadmere sisters gracefully rose to greet them.

A heady rush of longing hit Thorne square in his chest, almost knocking the wind from him. Lady Blessing was a vision in a pale blue gown that matched her eyes. He clenched his teeth to keep his demeanor from betraying her effect on him.

The Duke of Broadmere stepped forward, directing Hethersby to each of the ladies in turn. "Your Grace—allow me to present my sisters. Ladies Serendipity, Blessing, Fortuity, Grace, Joy, Felicity, and Merry. Sisters…" Broadmere paused as his lovely siblings finished their curtsies that rippled down their line like a wave. Broadmere fixed them with what Thorne would describe as a warning look. "Allow me to introduce His Grace, Duke of Hethersby."

"It is my pleasure and honor to meet each of you." Hethersby smiled and gave a tip of his head to them all. "I pray you will forgive me if I do not remember your names straightaway." He twitched the slightest shrug, his expression one of sheepish embarrassment. "I fear I am terrible with names. Please do not hesitate to correct me." He gestured to Thorne. "I hope Lord Knightwood will not mind my thanking you for selecting the two of us to join you for tea. We consider ourselves most fortunate. Do we not, my lord?"

"Indeed, we do, Your Grace." Thorne tried to keep the jealousy out of his tone. That was all he needed to do, make himself appear petty beside a man who didn't hesitate to admit to a weakness. He watched Lady Blessing, wishing she would meet his gaze and toss him a crumb of hope that this visit was not in vain.

"Lord Knightwood," Broadmere said in a tone that stirred Thorne's misgivings even more. "I do not believe introductions to my sisters are necessary for you. Have you not already met them?"

"I had the pleasure of meeting Lady Serendipity and Lady Blessing at Lady Atterley's ball," Thorne said. He offered the remaining sisters his most charming smile. "I met Lady Fortuity during a prior visit here, but I have so far missed meeting the Ladies Grace, Joy, Felicity, and Merry."

"You must tell me how you do that," Hethersby said to Thorne, his voice aglow with genuine admiration.

"Do what?"

"Remember so many names so easily." The duke gave the ladies an apologetic tip of his head. "Please do not misunderstand me. You are all quite stunning and each of you unique. But so many names…"

"Have no worry," Broadmere told him. "I am sure as you get to know them, their names will come to you quite easily."

"Yes," Thorne agreed, wishing he hadn't botched his earlier interactions with Lady Blessing. If he hadn't, they could have been well and truly betrothed by now, with no danger of him losing her to the entirely too amiable duke. The unbelievably genial man should have been a vicar with a temperament like that.

After the ladies seated themselves, Thorne waited a moment longer before settling onto the golden damask settee across from them. Hethersby sat on the other end of it while the Duke of Broadmere returned to the chair placed between the sisters and their guests, much like a host's seat at the head of the table.

"Our tea will be here shortly," Broadmere said, directing his announcement to Hethersby. He made no effort to disguise his preference for the duke as a potential suitor for one of his sisters. So much so that Thorne began to wonder why he had even been allowed to stay.

"Lord Knightwood," Lady Blessing said with a smile that threatened to bring him to his knees at her feet. "Thank you."

Thorne stared at her, unable to form a coherent thought for the longest moment because of the unmistakable affection in her eyes—affection directed at him. "Forgive me, my lady. I fear you have the advantage—for what are you thanking me?"

"Blessing," Broadmere said in a warning tone that sounded as if he meant to control his sister.

Thorne almost laughed when she gave her brother a cutting glare before turning back to him.

"I overheard everything said in the hallway, my lord—the insults, the slurs—and saw what happened afterward." Her voice softened. "I thank you because when you defend my sisters, you defend me."

"He handled those sorry types with admirable chivalry, my lady," Hethersby told her while leaning forward with the excitement of a young lad who had just witnessed an impressive fight. Then he ducked his head. "Forgive me, ladies, for sitting there and doing nothing."

Thorne wished the guilt-ridden duke would quiet himself, but rather than elbow the man out of the way, he kept his gaze locked with Lady Blessing's. "You are more than welcome, my lady. I could not allow such disturbing conversations to go unaddressed."

"Yes, well…" Broadmere shifted in his chair and looked back at the doors. "Where the devil is our tea?"

"Shall I see to it, brother?" Lady Merry leaned forward in her chair as if ready to charge away.

"No, thank you, Merry," he answered with a tight-lipped scowl.

"How are your constellations, Lady Blessing?" Thorne asked, choosing to bolster any advantage he might possess with the lovely lady. While it would be preferable to have her brother's approval and blessing, if he recalled the gossips rightly, the lady was of age and did not need the duke's permission to marry.

"They are hardly my constellations, my lord." Her teasing grin made the plump bow of her pink lips appear even more kissable. "They are there for all to enjoy."

"You are an admirer of the stars?" the Duke of Hethersby asked her.

Much to Thorne's relief, Lady Blessing shifted her demeanor to the polite yet detached friendliness of a hostess not particularly excited about her guest. "Yes, Your Grace. My father allowed my studies to include astronomy. We shared a love for the stars."

Hethersby shifted in his seat, fidgeting from side to side. "I often admire the stars from my country estate where the skies are not distorted by the city's lights and smoke. Do you like the country, Lady Blessing? Or do you prefer living in the city?"

"Lady Blessing is happy wherever her family is—and when she marries and has children, she will be happy wherever they are," Broadmere said with a quelling look at his sister.

Lady Blessing's eyes flared wide, and she opened her mouth to respond, but Lady Serendipity leaned forward and inserted herself into the conversation. "Have you studied astronomy, Your Grace?"

Thorne bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at the fury flashing in Lady Blessing's eyes.

"Oh no, Lady…uhm, my lady," Hethersby said, as if completely unaware of the war between the siblings. "I merely enjoy looking up at the night sky and wondering at the vastness of it all."

"Indeed," Thorne couldn't resist saying.

Broadmere shot a narrow-eyed glare at him.

Thorne returned fire with a glare of its own. He might be a mere baron, but he had several years on the new duke, and not a doubt existed in his mind that he could navigate the ton with more agility and finesse than the young cub.

Lady Blessing rose from her seat with a suddenness that caused all three gentlemen to scramble to their feet. Ignoring her brother and Thorne, she stepped forward and offered a polite curtsy to the gangly Duke of Hethersby. "Do forgive me, Your Grace, but my sister Fortuity and I must excuse ourselves to discuss a private topic of the utmost urgency with Lord Knightwood. Please do not think us rude. I know this is quite unconventional, but we invited him to call today regarding our urgent topic before we became aware so many callers might visit today. I am sure you understand."

Hethersby responded with a gallant bow. "But of course, Lady Blessing. Do not trouble yourself with worry. I am grateful to have met you today and shared what time you could spare. I do hope you will consider granting me the pleasure of your company again sometime?"

With a graceful tip of her head, she offered her hand. "I will indeed, Your Grace. It has been a pleasure meeting you. Thank you so much for understanding."

He took her hand, bowed his tall frame over it, then turned to Thorne and smiled. "Good day to you, Lord Knightwood. I am sure we shall cross paths again."

"Good day to you, Your Grace." Thorne felt quite wicked about taking advantage of such a guileless man. But Lady Blessing was at stake. He would do whatever it took to win her.

"My sister sometimes confuses dates and appointments, Your Grace," Broadmere said, his tone strained and simmering with frustration. "Blessing, perhaps you might check your diary. I am quite sure you will find this afternoon was open for callers."

"No thank you, brother." Lady Blessing's smile didn't fool anyone but the unsuspecting Hethersby. "I am quite certain about the day's appointments. If you wish, we may speak about this later."

"We most certainly will," Broadmere growled, his eyes darkening to an almost purple hue that made him appear quite sinister.

Thorne wondered if the man had trouble winning at cards with eyes like that. Many a hand could be lost by revealing one's emotions. He strode forward, held the door for the ladies, then followed them out while fighting the urge to shoot a victorious smirk back at Broadmere. The pair of dukes could enjoy their tea with the remaining sisters. Thorne couldn't help but smile. Now poor Hethersby had two fewer names to remember.