Unconventional Suitors 01 - Her Unconventional Suitor

  Her Unconventional Suitor

  A Novel

  Ginny Hartman

  Copyright © 2014 by Ginny Hartman

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Ginny Hartman

  Book design by Ginny Hartman

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First printing: December 2014

  ISBN-13: 978-1505319453

  To Lindsay, the sister of my heart.

  Beautiful, strong, and gifted—everything I wish to be.

  You are my example and my strength.

  Kiss, Kiss

  Chapter 1

  “It’s as if I’m seeing a ghost.”

  “A very ugly ghost.”

  Benedict scowled as he approached the far table tucked into a corner at White’s, his legs still slightly unsteady after spending so many days at sea on his return voyage to England. There, sitting at the table like old time’s sake, as if no time had passed at all, sat his three closest friends. The past two years melted away as he looked from one familiar face to the next.

  Marcus sat resting his forearms on the table casually. His chestnut hair looked effortlessly mussed while his blue eyes sparkled with mirth. Marcus was the most lighthearted of his friends, a smile always ready to break out across his handsome face, revealing dimples that he very much used to his advantage with the ladies.

  Warren sat next to Marcus, his back ramrod straight. He was the only one of them with fair hair, easily distinguishing him from the rest. He was slender and tall, with an aristocratic nose and narrow lips. He came across as stuffy and proper, but upon further acquaintance, he was actually an easy going and highly likeable fellow.

  Then there was Griffin, talk, dark, and handsome, the epitome of an English rake. His dark eyes had the power to scorch you with one sizzling glare, but they also had the power to draw just about any female in with their smolder. And the problem with Griffin was that he knew it. He knew the power he had over people and the affect he had on the ladies of the ton. He was as conceited as he was handsome and he had the power to provoke Benedict like none of his other friends could. He had tried analyzing it once and the uncomfortable conclusion he had come to was that they were too much alike, Griffin and he. The thought had suffocated him like a wretchedly tight cravat, one that he chose to remove from his person and never think of again.

  “Have a seat, Lord Danford,” Marcus drawled as he signaled the server to bring them all a round of drinks.

  Benedict cringed at the use of his new name, much preferring the old days when he was simply Lord Rossington and merely held the courtesy title of Viscount Rossington. But that was before his father had unexpectedly passed away, leaving him the new Earl of Danford, prompting not only a change in title, but requiring him to return to England at his mother’s request, where he was to take over running the family estate. But simply running the estate was not all that she required of him; no, in the two days he had been back in London, she had done nothing but badger him into accepting his duty to find a wife and produce an heir. A duty he was none too excited about.

  Griffin leaned back in his chair, crossing both arms behind his head, a gesture that caused his shirtsleeves to pull tightly across his muscled arms, a look that Benedict knew he did on purpose so as to show off his assets to the ladies. “What are your plans, now that you’re back in London?”

  Benedict stuck his booted foot out and gave Griffin’s chair a swift kick, causing him to startle as he fell backwards. “There are no ladies here to impress, you can stop posing.”

  A sly smiled spread across Griffin’s face as he effortlessly caught his fall and resumed his position in the chair. “Am I making you feel inferior?”

  Warren took a slow sip of his brandy then scoffed. “I’m afraid it’ll take more than your well-defined muscles to make Benedict feel inferior. With his newly acquired title and inherited wealth, I daresay he will have his pick of the season, once word gets out that he’s returned to the country.”

  “And I daresay,” Marcus chimed in, “that his good looks, combined with the air of mystery surrounding him, will make it so that he has no trouble at all finding a chit anxious and willing enough to become the next Countess of Danford. Perhaps even Lady Adel will find him quite the catch.”

  Griffin lowered his arms, giving Marcus a deadly scowl. “Lady Adel would never be won over by a title alone.”

  “Perhaps not. But a title, wealth, and a distractingly handsome prospective husband would surely be a temptation too great for any lady to bear,” Marcus stated with the intent to rile Griffin.

  Benedict laughed. “You find me distractingly handsome, Marcus? I am flattered.”

  “I personally do not. I find you as ugly as a goat, but I have spent more time than I care to admit listening to my little sisters prattle on about the fashionable rakes of London, and I daresay you fit the mold to perfection. I’m not naive enough to think that your reappearance will not cause a stir amongst the fairer sex of the ton.”

  “Then perhaps,” Griffin interjected, leaning towards Marcus as he spoke icily, “he should marry one of your sisters. But I warn you, Benedict, stay away from Lady Adel.”

  Benedict cocked one brow, looking at his friend with curiosity. “Do you have designs on this Lady Adel?”

  “No,” he spit out angrily, swiftly. “But I’m not heartless. Her mother’s death has left her in a vulnerable position, and I am not willing to sit back and watch as one rogue or another takes advantage of her.”

  Warren placed his elbows on the table and leaned closer to Benedict. Speaking in hushed tones, he said, “You may not be aware that Griffin’s mother died in your absence.”

  “Actually, I had heard.”

  “Then you have heard of his sister’s fate?”

  “His sister?” Benedict questioned. Turning to Griffin he asked, “What happened to your sister?”

  Griffin’s smoldering eyes didn’t soften in the least when he spat out angrily, “My father forced her upon the very first suitor that came calling, anxious to be rid of her, since he wasn’t quite sure how to handle a daughter going about her first season. She was unfortunate enough to be matched with Lord Darby, a man older than my father and twice as thick. She’s been indescribably miserable ever since. I don’t wish to see Lady Adel face the same fate.”

  “What a blighter!” Benedict cursed.

  “My father?” Griffin questioned, clearly offended by Benedict’s affront.

  “You, you imbecile. You insult me by comparing me to Lord Darby. I am neither old or fat. Nor am I looking to take advantage of the first girl that comes along.”

  “No,” Warren piped in, “but they may be looking to take advantage of you.”

  Benedict gave each of his friends a look of annoyance. “How any of you have managed to stay my closest friends is beyond me.”

  Marcus laughed. “It is only because you are afraid we would make worse enemies than friends. I daresay we have enough information on you from our childhood, followed by our days spent at Eton, to make even your own mother feel tempted to disown you.”

  Benedict recalled several instances of folly that he had been involved in years prior that would not make his mother happy, instances that these men
were privy to. He had long ago tucked away the memories of his past indiscretions, but it was apparent that his friends hadn’t. The good news was, he had plenty of information on them too.

  “Remember that time at Eton when Benedict was so deep in his cups that he…”

  Benedict slapped his hand loudly on the table in front of him to stop Marcus from recalling his humiliation, causing their glasses to rattle. “Please, we do not need to recant that horrible tale.”

  Marcus ignored him. “…stumbled into the stables and mistook Lord Endelson’s mare for his mistress? I daresay that horse had never received such a passionate kiss in its life.”

  Everyone except Benedict roared with laughter.

  “I didn’t even have a mistress,” he scowled.

  “But you were so tap-hackled you couldn’t even remember whether you did or not,” Warren chuckled.

  “I’ll have you know that I haven’t gotten foxed since that night. I learned my lesson well, and it would do you all good to learn it too before you make fools of yourselves in like manner. But heaven help me, I hope I am there when you do so I can relive your embarrassment over and over for the next ten years of your sorry lives.”

  His tirade did nothing except cause them all to laugh further. He wondered, once again, how these men ever managed to remain his friends. He tried to ignore their amusement at his expense as he leaned back and nursed his brandy.

  He hadn’t always been the bore of the group. In fact, in their younger days, he had always been the most lively of the gang, the ring leader of sorts, enticing them to do some horribly outrageous things all in the name of fun. But perhaps the last two years abroad had changed all that, and naturally so, for how could two years spent away from family and friends and society not change a man?

  The problem was, he wasn’t sure exactly how to fit back into polite society since his return. The past two years he had spent traveling through Europe, gaining new insights and expanding his mind. He had not been prisoner to any set of social norms, instead discovering and learning about many different cultures and lifestyles, convinced that he was happiest when he wasn’t expected to mold his character to fit what society deemed as normal and fashionable, but rather, was free to do and act as he wished.

  Benedict wasn’t sure how long he was lost in his thoughts when Warren leaned forward and drew him out by saying, “You look unusually pensive and morose, not at all like the man I remember from before you left England.”

  Benedict bristled. He didn’t like anyone pointing out the obvious, though it was the same thing he had been pondering on just now. He kept telling himself that perhaps it would only take time. That once he had settled in to life as the Earl of Danford and had gotten back into the routine of things and began participating in the entertainments of the season, that he would feel like himself once more. He hoped he wasn’t just lying to himself.

  “Well, you are wrong,” he protested. “I am very much the same man as before. It will just take some time for me to get used to being in London again.”

  “The same man, you say?” Griffin didn’t seem convinced. “Then you will prove it by accepting a wager.”

  “A wager? I do not need to accept a silly wager to prove to you that I am the same man as before. Time will do the telling.” Inwardly Benedict groaned. He hoped that Griffin would drop his suggestion before it turned into a formal bet, something he couldn’t back out of.

  Many years ago, while they were still in the schoolroom, they had all entered into a sort of unwritten contract with each other, their only goal being to have fun, whether it came at the expense of one another or not. They had agreed that no matter how outlandish the wager was, once one of them was issued, there was no backing out. They had taken the pact seriously, doing whatever the other friends had dared them to do, unwilling to appear the coward.

  While they had been away at University, their thirst for entertainment had only escalated, and amusing each other had been one of their top goals, to which they were highly successful. They had each done their fair share of foolish things, but Benedict thought that silly childish game of theirs was in the past, where it belonged.

  Griffin’s eyes danced with the devils as he casually leaned back in his chair, one booted foot propped up on his thigh. “You are right. Time will do the telling, because the wager I am issuing will take some time to perform.”

  Benedict’s heart sank. There was no way he’d be able to get out of whatever asinine idea Griffin had concocted.

  Griffin continued, all three of the men listening intently. “Since everyone is so cocksure that you can have your pick of the ladies this season, I propose that we put that motion to the test. We,” he indicated Marcus, Warren, and himself, “will pick your bride for you, any lady we so please, and you will have to woo her and get her to fall in love with you.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Benedict exclaimed, nonplussed by the audaciousness of Griffin’s suggestion.

  “Are you afraid you won’t be able to complete the task?” Griffin asked in that arrogant way of his that caused Benedict’s hackles to raise.

  “No,” Benedict snapped, his pride welling up within him. “I am smart enough to know not to trust your judgment concerning the fairer sex. For all I know, this Lady Adel that you are so enamored with is a dowdy bluestocking.”

  “Blast it all, Benedict,” Griffin pounded his fist angrily on the table. “Cease speaking ill of Lady Adel or I will call you out. Now, agree to the bet or pay the price of a coward.”

  The old competitive spirit welled up in Benedict, forcing him to agree to the bet. “Fine, pick whichever lady you will, and I will have her eating out of the palm of my hand by the season’s end, eager and ready to accept my marriage proposal.”

  “But that’s too simple,” Marcus interjected. “I don’t think Benedict will have any problems getting a chit to fall in love with him. I fail to see the challenge in it.”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” Griffin gently scolded. “You will attempt to woo such lady disguised as an unfashionable half-wit.”

  Warren snorted, Marcus beamed, and Benedict scowled.

  “You ask too much. I am not, nor have I ever been, an unfashionable half-wit. Besides, what sort of lady would ever be interested in such a boor? I do not wish my re-entrance into polite society to be tainted by your preposterous idea.” Benedict shook his head in disgust as he thought of the outlandish wager.

  “It’s not simply an idea,” Marcus reminded him, his eyes twinkling with glee, clearly amused at the prospect of Benedict making a cake of himself, “It’s a bet, and you cannot back out unless…”

  “Unless,” Griffin interrupted, “you want your mother to find out about your father’s bastard child.”

  Benedict groaned. Why did he have to threaten him with that, of all things?

  “And,” apparently Griffin wasn’t finished, “be branded a coward for life.”

  There was that as well. No proper gentleman would rightly desire to be called a coward, nor carry the reputation with them indefinitely.

  “Fine,” he growled. “I will do it.” The satisfied grin that appeared on Griffin’s face made Benedict want to slug him. He would never have agreed to such an outlandish bet if he hadn’t thrown in that fact about his father’s illegitimate child. “But, if I am successful in my attempts, I require one thing from each of you.” He glanced at each one of his friends to make sure that they were all listening. When he was satisfied that they were, he announced his condition. “I will select your bride’s in return.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “Alright.”

  “Very well.”

  Benedict was surprised that his friends were so quick to acquiesce to his stipulation. His mind instantly began conjuring up visions of the frumpy and ill-mannered ladies he would chose for them as punishment. A wicked grin broke out across his face.

  “Do not be so pleased with yourself,” Griffin chided. “The only reason I have agreed to your prepos
terous notion is because I am convinced that there is no way you will win the bet. You may have been considered all the crack in the past, but as soon as we are through dressing you and dictating how you will act, you’d be lucky to get the stuffiest bluestocking to dance with you, let alone agree to become your wife. The lady we choose will have to willingly and readily become your wife, no easy feat.”

  “What about excitedly?” Benedict asked arrogantly. They all scoffed at him as if that were the most preposterous idea.

  Benedict chose to ignore their insulting ways and asked, “What if I simply compromise the chit you choose, forcing her into marriage?”

  “That will not qualify as a win,” Warren eagerly piped in. “Griffin clearly stated that you will have to get the lady of our choosing to fall in love with you. You will forfeit the bet if you are found compromising her.”

  Benedict’s eyes scrunched together in a scowl. “Are there any other rules I should be made aware of?”

  Griffin shook his head. “I think that covers everything. You will have till the end of the season to be engaged. If you are not, we will claim the victory and be free to tell your mother about your father’s illegitimate son, your half-brother.”

  Griffin stuck his outstretched hand in Benedict’s face, indicating that they should shake on the absurd wager. Benedict slapped his hand away and growled while Griffin threw his head back and laughed. Benedict had a feeling that this was going to be the longest season of his life.

  Chapter 2

  Benedict sat before the glowing fire in his bedchamber, wearing only his dressing gown, when his valet, Jonathan, came strolling out of his dressing room with a pair of black wool pants and a freshly starched white muslin shirt draped over his arm. His new wardrobe had just been delivered that morning, and Jonathan had perhaps been even more excited than Benedict upon their arrival.

  The man strode over to where Benedict was sitting and said, “Allow me to assist you with your dress, my lord.”