The Dollar Prince's Wife. Paula Marshall
to that society’s most notorious beauty, Violet, Lady Kenilworth, the Prince of Wales’s current mistress. She had known only too desolately well what would follow when such a pair of sexual predators met for the first time.
Belle amie of the heir to the throne Violet might be, but she could not resist the challenge which Apollo—as she had instantly named Cobie—presented to her.
‘Half-sister?’ she queried after Susanna had left them.
‘You might call her that,’ Cobie replied in his society drawl, which was neither English nor American but something carefully pitched between the two.
‘Might you?’ Violet was all cool charm. ‘You’re not a bit like her, you know.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Cobie replied to this impertinent remark which broke all society’s rules—but Violet, like Cobie, always made up her own. Then, with a touch of charming impudence, ‘And are you like your sister, Lady Kenilworth?’
Violet threw her lovely head back to show the long line of her throat, her blue eyes alight beneath the gold crown of her hair. ‘God forbid!’ she exclaimed. ‘We are quite unlike in every way—to my great relief, she’s the world’s greatest bore—and call me Violet, do.’
Despite himself Cobie was intrigued. What in the world could the sister be like who inspired Violet to be so cuttingly cruel? Nevertheless he merely bowed and said, ‘Violet, since you wish it. For my part I wish that I were more like Susanna.’
‘I don’t,’ said Violet, full of provocation. ‘Not if it involved you turning into a dark young woman. I much prefer tall, handsome, blond men.’
Seeing that the Prince of Wales was neither tall nor blond and was certainly not handsome, this riposte amused Cobie—as it was intended to. Before he could reply, Violet was busy verbally seducing him again.
‘You are over from the States, I gather. Is it your first visit? I do hope that you will make it a long one.’
‘It will be my first long visit,’ he replied, his mouth curling a little in amusement at her naked sexual aggression barely hidden beneath the nothings of polite conversation. ‘I have made several short ones before—on business.’
‘Business!’ It was the turn of Violet’s mouth to curl. ‘Forgive me, but you seem made for pleasure.’
The buttons were off the foils with a vengeance, were they not!
‘A useful impression to give if one wishes to succeed in business—’ he began.
‘But not this visit—’ she said sweetly, interrupting him—so for quid pro quo he decided to interrupt her with,
‘No, not this visit. I have been overworking and I need a holiday.’
‘The overwork is truly American,’ pronounced Violet. ‘The holiday part is not. I thought that Americans never rested, were always full of—what is it?—get up and go!’
‘Ah, another illusion shattered.’ Cobie was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘The first of many, I hope. It all depends on what kind of get up and go we are speaking of.’
‘All kinds, I hope,’ murmured Violet, lowering her eyes, only to raise them again, saying, ‘Now we must part—to entertain others. Before we do so, may I invite you to visit us at Moorings, our place in the country. We go there in ten days’ time to spend a few weeks before the Season proper starts.
‘In the meantime, allow me to inform you that I am always at home to my true friends from two o’clock. Pray don’t wait until four-fifteen—only the bores visit then.’
Cobie bowed, and she moved away. He was aware that he had become the centre of interest. He was, Susanna told him later, socially made now that Violet Kenilworth had taken him up. Not all the eyes on him were kind, among them those of Sir Ratcliffe Heneage to whom Arthur Winthrop introduced him later.
Sir Ratcliffe’s eyes raked him dismissively. He was everything which an American thought of as a typical English aristocrat. He was tall, dark, impeccably dressed, authoritative, well built with a hawk-like face. He was a junior Cabinet Minister, a noted bon viveur, was part of the Prince of Wales’s circle, and had once been an officer in the Guards.
The assessing part of Cobie, however, which never left him, even when he was amusing himself, told him that, disguise it as he might, Sir Ratcliffe was on the verge of running to seed. His face was already showing the early signs of over-indulgence.
‘Related to Sir Alan Dilhorne, I hear,’ Sir Ratcliffe drawled condescendingly to this damned American upstart, only able to enter good society because of his immense wealth—made by dubious means, no doubt.
‘Distantly.’ Cobie’s drawl matched Sir Ratcliffe’s—he made it more English than usual. ‘Only distantly.’
‘Getting old, Sir Alan—giving up politics, I hear. That’s a dog’s life, you know. Can’t think why I went in for it. Who wants to sit around listening for division bells and all that? Gives one a certain cachet, though. You in politics back home?’
‘Not my line,’ said Cobie cheerfully. ‘Too busy earning a living.’ He wondered what had caused the waves of dislike emanating from the man opposite. ‘Takes me all my time to survive on Wall Street.’
And, oh, what a lie that was!
Sir Ratcliffe’s lip curled a little. ‘In business, are you?’ he asked, his tone showing what he thought of those who worked for a living rather than played for it. ‘Sooner you than me, old fellow. Miss it while you’re over here, will you?’
‘I’ve come to enjoy myself,’ was Cobie’s reply to that. The man’s patronising air was enough to set your teeth on edge, he thought.
‘Plenty of that on offer—if you know where to look for it. Shoot, do you?’
‘A little,’ lied Cobie, who was a crack shot with every kind of weapon, but for some reason decided not to confess to that. There were times when he wondered whether he would ever be permitted the luxury of telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!
‘A little, eh? Don’t suppose you get much chance to shoot anything in Wall Street, hey! hey! Or anywhere else for that matter.’
‘Exactly,’ drawled Cobie, suppressing a dreadful urge to tell the languid fool opposite to him that there had been a time when Cobie Grant, then known as Jake Coburn, a six-shooter in his hand, had been a man to fear and to avoid.
On the other hand, if Sir Ratcliffe chose to think him a soft townie, then it was all to the good. It usually paid to be underestimated.
At breakfast that morning, Susanna explained why Sir Ratcliffe disliked him so much.
‘He saw Violet was taken with you, didn’t he? She was looking at you as though you were a rather delicious meal laid out for her to enjoy. He’s been after her for months—with no luck. He’s made an ass of himself over the Prince’s favouring her. On top of that, the rumour is that he’s in Queer Street financially, and there’s you, an enormously rich Yankee, fascinating Violet without even trying.’
Of course, Sir Ratcliffe had been right to be jealous—and so had Susanna, which was why she was reproaching Cobie for being the man he was and not the man he had been.
Susanna had been only too well aware that Cobie would take up Violet’s two o’clock invitation at the earliest opportunity—which he promptly did, that very afternoon. At the Kenilworths’ town house in Piccadilly he enjoyed, for what it was worth, what a famous actress and beauty had once called the hurly burly of the chaise-longue rather than the deep peace of the marriage bed. One disadvantage being that one remained virtually fully clothed.
He also, a little reluctantly, agreed to visit Moorings several days before the rest of the guests arrived. Violet had smiled at him confidentially, and drawled, ‘As early as you like so that we can enjoy ourselves in comfort.’