The Last Lord Standing
by Diana Lloyd
Copyright © 2023 by Diana Lloyd. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
1812
Ruined. A public snub from the daughter of a duke was as silent, quick, and efficient as a blade through the heart. Lady Olivia Liberty Chalford always thought she’d fall from Society’s grace with a bit more fanfare. She raised her chin as her face warmed with indignation and watched her former friend disappear into the crowded ballroom.
Refusing to look around to see the shocked faces of those who’d witnessed the cut direct, she adjusted her mouth into a semblance of a blithe smile and stared at the orchestra. The most notable event of the evening was supposed to have been the attendance of the poet, Lord Byron. Instead, the recklessly ill-mannered lord had breezed past the ballroom without greeting her parents or wishing her felicitations on her birthday.
Two and twenty today, the evening portended the beginning of her downward slide into spinsterhood. After three seasons, she’d spurned three unacceptable offers. At least, they’d been unacceptable to her. Today’s fete, with all the blooms, gilt, and ribbons suggesting a more joyous outcome was, to her, more of a starting line in her race to achieve upheaval. Looking around at all the silken, jeweled gowns and crisp superfine coats, it was hard to believe she was the only one in the room who viewed it all with a large measure of disdain.
While she considered her father fiscally responsible and a thoughtful guardian of the family fortune, in truth, titles weren’t portioned out based upon merit. They lived in this grand house, burned beeswax candles in the ballroom, and summered at Winchcombe Abbey courtesy of the fickleness of fate for having been born into a titled family. Every year the great chasm betwixt the haves and the have-nots stretched a little wider and more of the working class tumbled in, never to claw their way back out again.
As if her soon-to-be-implemented plan to insert herself into the fray wasn’t enough, the cut by Lady Elsinore Cosgrove, the Duke of Wallingford’s youngest daughter, may have sealed her fate as an outcast. Any offers of marriage received now would come from fortune hunters, elderly rheumatics, and gentlemen who’d also fallen from Society’s good graces.
Convincing her feet that there was no need to grow roots into the floor, Libby lurched forward and crashed into a wall of midnight blue wool with silver buttons. The unfortunate occupant of the blue coat was forced into an impromptu juggling act with the cup of punch he carried. His performance left them both spattered in blood-red cherry liquid.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I wasn’t minding my direction.” Abandoning her retreat for the moment, she pushed her own calamity aside and apologized by force of habit. The man managed a deceptively warm smile in response. Her social life was most likely about to come crashing down around her ears, but she could be no less than cordial to one of her parents’ guests. Matching his smile with one of her own, decorum dictated she offer the poor man assistance with good humor.
“May I…” he said, executing a reasonably elegant bow with empty cup still in hand.
“Might I…” she said at the same time, their words bumping into each other along with their heads.
Nervousness forced her lips into another smile as she rubbed her temple and bobbed a curtsy. His face elicited no memory of acquaintance or name. Who is he? Neither as tall nor as old as her father, the stranger’s bright blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, and youthful face teased at any age from twenty to forty. Perhaps he was a rogue Corinthian who’d slipped into her birthday ball for liquor and cards.
“Punch, miss?” he asked, offering her the empty cup. “I hope you’re not too thirsty.”
“No, thank you,” she said, looking down at her stained gown. “I just had some.” Snatching the cup away, she slipped it onto the tray of a passing footman as she considered her next move. “Follow me, I’ll direct you to the gentlemen’s retiring room and have someone meet you there with something to clean your coat.”
“You need to dance with me.” Offering his arm, he turned to the dance floor.
“My gown is ruined, sir, I couldn’t possibly.” Determined that her last evening before becoming a social pariah shouldn’t end as badly as it started, she boldly looked him over. Ignoring the punch stains, the guest’s suit was well-tailored with no threadbare spots or loose seams and his shoes well-made and polished. His tailor and valet might be meticulous, but it was impossible to decipher anything of this man’s character with so little evidence.
“Ruined?” His tone was teasing, as if they were already old chums who could speak of such things publicly. “I say it is an improvement. An embellishment of rosebuds or flock of robin redbreasts taking flight across your skirt. You wear it so well no one would be the wiser.”
“I would.” Curious, yet distrustful, she said the one thing that would surely send him packing off to sniff around someone else’s hem. “You’re quite the accomplished liar, sir.”
“True. I’m very good at it. I might be England’s greatest liar. Take my hand,” he said, still teasing. “A new set is starting.”
“I will do no such thing. We’ve not been properly introduced.” Cheeky bastard. Civility be damned, she had her own problems and owed him nothing. “Enjoy your evening, sirrah, the offer to have your coat cleaned stands but I will not be dancing with you.”
“I saw,” he said in a contrived whisper. “If you quit the room now, you confirm what everyone else who saw is thinking. Refuse to be cowed by Society’s perception of someone else’s rudeness. Dance with me and plant doubt in their minds that their eyes may have deceived them. You’re wearing my punch, what more of an introduction do you need?”
“Why would you help me? I don’t even know you.” He was right in one thing, until enough gossip spread, she could pretend the cut hadn’t happened at all. If she was seen speaking to Elsinore later, what just happened would hold no credence. Whoever the man was, she applauded his jaded view of Society.
“I’m the second son of a second son. A nobody who occasionally crawls out from the abyss of anonymity to perform a good deed.” Delivering his words with casual self-deprecation, he offered his arm again.
“Just one dance.” Placing her hand on his arm, she swallowed down pride and reason before stepping onto the dance floor. Outrageous as it was, there was merit in his reasoning. While a good friend, Elsinore was flighty as a sparrow. When she returned to the ballroom, she’d rush over as if nothing had happened between them and laugh at her own absent-mindedness. What harm could there be in being found on the arm of a handsome gentleman?
Three steps into the dance, she dared to relax. The mysterious guest took no liberties, no one was staring at her or her stained gown, and he was an accomplished dancer. His steps were gracefully confident, his movements sure, and his hands warm through the barrier of expensive gloves. The thought made her smile. Gloves. Perhaps thinking her smile was for him, he returned it tenfold.
Oops. She missed her next step, stumbled and reached out to steady herself. Unfortunately, the only steadying object within reach was her mysterious dance partner. His smile never fading as she grabbed a handful of his stained coat, one hand slid down to her waist to steady her into the next step of the dance.
“Stop,” she whispered.
“Stop rescuing a damsel in distress? I think not. It’s my nature.” He spoke with the same familiar teasing tone with which he’d asked her to dance.
“I am not in distress.” A statement that would have been boldly cutting if not for the fact that she had to whisper it back over her shoulder as they changed partners. Trying to smile, or at least not appear peeved, she formulated a retort sure to put the cheeky fellow in his place the next time he came near.
Six allemandes later, the sharp words evaporated the moment their hands reconnected. Scoundrel or not, he might be her best chance at weathering the storm of a cut direct. And if she’d any chance of still putting her plan for independence into motion, having a resourceful male friend would be useful. With that thought, she relaxed her shoulders and calmed the dread and panic wrestling in the pit of her stomach. Holding her fingertips with gentle pressure, the mystery man leaned in as they began the last promenade.
“Having fun, Lady Liberty?” he asked with a wide smile.
“None at all,” she lied. The scoundrel had her at an unfair advantage. He knew who she was—he even dared to use her most dreaded nickname. It was past time she learned who she was dancing with. His carefree manner had been too disarming. She’d bet her pin money that women regularly blurted out their deepest, darkest secrets to him in exchange for one of his smiles. Perhaps he was a spy.
“Then we should stop.” Dancing her away from the center of the room before she could protest, he executed a quick turn that landed them behind one of the thick marble columns that supported the balcony above.
“Don’t you dare call me that ridiculous nickname again,” she sputtered. “My name is Libby. Oh, fiddle,” she said, stamping her foot. “Don’t use that name, either. You haven’t permission to address me at all.”
“My apologies, Lady Olivia,” he replied with a bow. “I didn’t realize you had a preference. Without benefit of proper introduction, I used the only name I knew. Everyone in your family has the most amusing nicknames. Surely, you’ve seen them in The Times.” If he was embarrassed by the admission of her family’s notoriety, he didn’t show it.
“My family isn’t a curiosity to be gawked at,” she whispered back, pushing against his chest until his back was pressed against the hard marble. “My father is no monster nor is my mother an American spy, and I’m not the sort to be lied to and played with. Thank you for the dance and for fetching punch,” she said, holding out her stained skirt.
“I take no offense to being called a liar, but you wound me deeply by assuming I’m here to stir up scandal broth. Bachelors such as I avoid all tittle-tattle that leads to a sound beating or the parson’s mousetrap. I was innocently delivering a cup of punch when I witnessed your dilemma. Out of kindness and nothing else, I diverted my path only to have you stain my suit, assault my person, and insult my honor.”
“Hardly assaulted,” she said petulantly, drawing back her hand. “You are unfamiliar to me; I cannot be faulted for caution.” Caution had already been thrown to the dogs when she’d agreed to dance with a stranger, but she would not tolerate any hint of ridicule of her family.
“I commend your concern and apologize for not making the innocence of my intentions clear.” He smiled again, a lovely display meant to charm women and put everyone around him at ease. It was a nice smile all the same, creating tiny lines at the corners of his eyes as if his entire face joined in the pleasure.
“I’m off to change my gown. You do as you must, your lordship.” Noble intentions or not, he was not a man to be completely trusted. His usefulness to her lay in his discretion, and she was beginning to doubt he had any.
“Mister. I’m no lord. Let’s not add impersonating a peer to my lies this evening.”
“Good evening, then.” Fighting the urge to run, she turned away as politely as possible. He may have danced a bit of life into her evening, and he may yet prove to be useful, but he was not her savior. There was no point in putting off the next difficult conversation she’d need to have this evening.
“Kerrigen Northam,” he introduced himself at last. “My friends call me Kerr.”
She spun around to remind him that they weren’t friends, but the words never made their way out of her mouth. Because his lips were right there. Perhaps he’d only leaned down for one more parting quip, but the temptation proved too great. Against all reason and what was left of her better judgment, Libby leaned in and pressed her lips against his.
His hesitation lasted less than a second and soon his lips, warm and soft, caressed hers. It was hardly her first kiss, but it was the first she had initiated. Trouble was, she didn’t know why she’d done it.
His gloved hand caressed her cheek before he drew away and, at last, she opened her eyes. His expression, unreadable for the first time that evening, looked a mix of amazement and sheer panic.
“I shouldn’t have,” he said. “Forgive me.”
“Never.” Libby shook her head and turned away.
Head held high, tingling lips pressed into a hard smile, she made her way across the room, wondering how much of what had just happened she would need to relate to her parents. The penalty for dancing with a gentleman to whom she’d not been properly introduced would be harsh, but the penalty for a kiss would be worse. As for the social snub, Father would glower, and Mother would hug her and tell her it didn’t matter. But it did.
Weaving through the crowd, a wave of whispers and snickers radiated out behind her. Gathering her skirt, she ran the last few yards to her parents. They’d all seen. They knew. She bit down on her bottom lip as if to punish it, but she could still feel the warmth of their kiss.
“I can explain,” she said, even as dread crawled up her spine and settled on her shoulders.
“Explain what?” Her mother’s face was a mask of confusion, her attention centered on the other end of the ballroom.
“Nothing.” Turning to see what her mother was looking at as another ripple of excitement made its way across the room, she noticed the lone footman running toward them. It was all over now, she told herself. She’d be forced into marriage and never get to become independent or organize her own charity.
“My lord, the Duke of Wallingford has requested your presence immediately.” Gasping out the request, the footman awaited a reply with a look of horror upon his face. “There’s been an incident concerning the duke’s daughter, my lord.”
“Oh, shite.” Her father straightened his shoulders. “Lead on,” he said, turning to follow the footman to the source of the duke’s discomfort.
“What did she do?” her mother whispered as she pulled Libby closer. “You two are thick as thieves. Tell me what she’s done.”
“I have no idea. I was…dancing.” Scrambling to think of a way to mitigate her own sins while helping her friend, Libby floundered for the right words.
“I knew Elsinore was up to something when she ran after Lord Byron. We shouldn’t have invited him but I’m afraid I have a soft spot for poets and rogues.” Winking, she pulled Libby into an embrace. “That’s why I fell in love with your father.”
“Elsinore didn’t speak to me about it.” Deciding against explaining the cut Wallingford’s daughter had delivered earlier, Libby sealed her lips and waited for details of the scandal that was hopefully large enough to erase her social downfall from everyone’s mind.
“Who is he?” her mother asked. “The man you were dancing with.”
“Do you recall inviting a gentleman named Kerrigen Northam?” Every nerve in her body stood at attention while she waited for the ax to drop on her one stolen kiss.
“No, I do not.”
