The Heiress In His Bed by Tamara Lejeune

Author:Tamara Lejeune
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zebra Books
Published: 2009-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Lord Simon Ascot did not often entertain women overnight in his rooms at the Albany, but Miss Rogers was an extremely talented young actress; for her he set aside his principles and made an exception. It was simply sheer bad luck that his mother should choose to visit him on this particular morning. Neither his lordship nor Miss Rogers stirred when the bed curtains were unceremoniously swept aside, but when the windows were laid bare, and white April light shot into the room, the desired effect was achieved.

Simon sat up and roared, his hair in disarray. “Hawkins!” he bawled at his manservant. “What the devil are you about?”

“Is that any way to greet your mother?” the duchess said in her dry voice.

As wise as she was talented, Miss Rogers unobtrusively seized the bedsheet and silently crawled out of the room. Naturally, the duchess chose not to see the actress; her grace had seated herself decorously near the fire and was busily arranging the skirts of her smartly striped costume.

Hawkins, meanwhile, had brought his lordship’s dressing gown, and all Simon had to do was slip into it. “Mother,” he said genially, coming to kiss her powdered cheek. “You look absolutely radiant. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“I have met the girl you are going to marry,” the duchess replied without preamble. “I thought you’d like to know.”

Simon frowned as he leaned against the mantelpiece. “The Arbogast is too presumptuous. I have not proposed to her pretty little daughter, nor is a trick like this likely to compel me.”

“I do not refer to the Arbogast,” his mother retorted. “I never take your flirtations seriously. I am talking about the girl who will lead you to the altar and make a man of you.”

“Am I not a man?” Simon wondered.

“You are a child,” said his mother. “A spoiled, wilful child. You lack ambition, Simon. The British Empire doesn’t run itself, you know. We need men to run it. The old breed are dying off. There are places of power opening up every day. I want you to sell out and stand for Parliament. Your brother can give you one of his pocket boroughs.”

“Politics?” Simon shook his head mockingly. “You know I faint at the sight of blood.”

“That must have made Waterloo very tiresome for you!” the duchess snapped, then instantly apologized. “I’m sorry, Simon. I know you don’t like to talk about the war. But if you marry this girl, you will be Prime Minister within five years. I give you my word.”

“I’d rather be a dentist. Less gruesome.”

The duchess sighed. “When you meet her, you will understand. She’s beautiful, of course, but I wouldn’t waste your time if she were only that. By this time next year, with or without you, she will be running Society. She will set the fashions. She will choose the entertainments. She will determine who is in and who is out. The plays and assemblies she goes to will be counted as successes—all the rest will fail.

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