White Regency 03 - White Knight Read Free

immediately
lost, but Lord Knighton hadn’t so much as batted an eye as he’d tipped his tall
hat to the affronted madam while congratulating Parrott on his success
at finding her such a soft place on which to land.
    From that moment, Parrott had thought the
marquess the most pleasant, most generous man he’d ever met, able to conquer
any obstacle put in his path. A gentleman, a hero, a veritable god.
    It hadn’t taken long, however, after he’d
been assigned the coachman’s position, spending part of most every day with
Lord Knighton, for Parrott to discover that the marquess was really a man who
wore two different, very contrary faces.
    To most, Christian, Lord Knighton was the
handsome and courteous lord, wealthy and self-assured, a man who had the very
world bowing at his feet. Most anything he desired was his for the taking. Even
the clouds seemed incapable of lowering when the marquess was about.
    It was only when he was away from the
scrutinizing eyes of society that Parrott came to know the other side of the
marquess, the one most everyone else never saw— the one who seemed to bear the
full weight of the world upon his shoulders.
    It was the face that Lord Knighton had
begun to wear far more frequently of late.
    To the rest of the world, the marquess was
the heir to the wealthiest man in the land, his grandfather, the great Duke of
Westover. Wherever Lord Knighton went people knew it. You could see it in their
eyes when they begged his acquaintance, or sought his opinion out of false
flattery, or even pushed their unmarried daughters in his path—as often
happened when the marquess was about. A room immediately hushed at his
entrance. Traffic stopped at the sight of him. The pleasure of a solitary walk
in the park was something denied him, for inevitably some romantic miss would
devise a plan to gain his attention—the last one had even trained her lap dog
to bring the marquess her shoe so that he’d be made to return it to her, just
like Cinderella and her fateful glass slipper.
    In the past year or so the marriage-minded
misses and their mamas had become doubly bold, as if they had somehow decided
his lordship’s bachelorhood had gone on long enough. “He is approaching
his thirtieth year,” Parrott had once heard one of them say, “long
past the time when he should be presenting the old duke with an heir.”
    Lord Knighton was what most ladies would
call “handsomely cut.” His features were strong; his dark hair cut
short and worn naturally. He wore his face clean shaven and his suit of clothes
seemingly without effort. Coupled with the vast fortune he was set to inherit,
it was no wonder the man never had a moment’s peace.
    “Would you be wantin’ me to await you
here in front with the coach then, my lord?” Parrott asked, bowing his
head as the marquess rapped at the door.
    Christian nodded, adjusting the cuff of
his coat. “I would expect this to prove a visit much like any other I have
made to my grandfather’s house, Parrott. The sooner cut short the better.”
    “The sooner, the better. Indeed, my
lord,” said Parrott, ambling away.
    Of the countless places Parrott had driven
the marquess, Westover House here on Grosvenor Square was certainly the one at
which he spent the least amount of time. It looked a fine enough establishment
from the outside—weathered red brick and gleaming windows behind an iron fence
topped by finials that shone golden even on an overcast day such as this.
Parrot could only guess at the finery inside; he’d never once been admitted nor
had he so much as glimpsed the stables in the mews at the rear, although he’d
heard from some of his acquaintances that they were equally fine.
    The young marquess, however, seemed
oblivious to it all. He came to this place only when summoned and emerged just
as quickly as he could, always in a far worse humor than he’d been upon
arriving. There was bad blood between the marquess and the duke, his
grandfather—bad