A Reckless Bargain

by Elizabeth Powell

  The duke cut him off. "I've had enough of this, Bainbridge! She should be at home with her family, not gadding about like a giddy schoolgirl."

  "Wexcombe, you're about as subtle as a hammer to the head," the marquess said with a sigh. "You cannot use your rank and position to bully your own grandmother. Let me talk to her."

  "I doubt you'll be able to do any better," snapped the duke. "You know what she's like once she has set her mind to something."

  "I just hope you haven't made a mull of it. After all, you want to persuade her to enjoy your company, not escape it."

  Wexcombe scowled. "I tried, Cousin, but I've never known anyone to be so willful."

  "You haven't been going about it the right way. Persuasion is the key, not force. I'll see what I can do." With a nod to the duke, Bainbridge started up the stairs.

  He knocked at the door to her room. "Great-Aunt Josephine? Are you in? It's Bainbridge."

  The door opened a crack; the dowager's maid regarded him with distrustful eyes. "Her Grace is resting, my lord."

  The marquess presented her with his most dazzling smile. "Please tell Her Grace that I would like to see her."

  "A moment, my lord." The abigail closed the door.

  A few heartbeats later, Bainbridge was ushered into the dowager duchess's sitting room. The dowager reclined on the chaise before the fireplace, a blanket over her knees. The marquess's heart sank. Lord, she looked so drawn, so tired, so… old. She stared into the fire, her complexion ashen.

  "Hello, Aunt," he said softly.

  Her dark gaze swiveled to his face. A spark of interest glittered there for a moment, then disappeared. She turned back to the fire. "Hmph. Are you here to take a turn at me, as well?"

  "Not at all. May I sit down?"

  The dowager made a vague gesture toward the Chippendale chair across the hearth from her; Bainbridge lowered himself into it and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

  "Well, what is it, then?" the dowager asked, her wrinkled lips still pursed in a frown.

  "I'm sorry, Aunt Jo," he said. "I had no idea they planned to do this."

  "I should hope not," she snapped. "I should hate to have to disinherit you, as well."

  "You don't want to do that. They meant well; truly they did."

  The duchess rose to a sitting position, her eyes flashing. "Oh, they did, did they? Cow-handed idiots, the lot of them! Think they can put me out to pasture like some broken-down nag. Balderdash. I won't stand for it. This is my life, and I'll be damned if I let that popinjay grandson of mine dictate to me!"

  A smile curled at the corner of Bainbridge's mouth. "None of your die-away airs now, ma'am," he drawled.

  The dowager squinted at him, then guffawed. "Oh, Nicholas, they have me in such a pet. Pour me a glass of brandy-for medicinal purposes, of course."

  "Of course." With a grin, Bainbridge rose and crossed to the washstand, where the dowager kept a bottle of smuggled French brandy and a glass in the small cupboard beneath it. That he kept her provided with the contraband liquor was their secret; if smuggled brandy kept her happy, all the better. He poured a small amount into the glass, then handed it to her.

  "You're a good lad, Nicholas," sighed the dowager. The rings on her fingers flashed in the firelight as she took a sip. "I am relieved to see that someone in the family inherited my intelligence."

  He folded himself into his chair. "But I am only your great-nephew by marriage," he pointed out.

  The dowager harrumphed. "Then that explains it. A pity one cannot choose one's blood relations." She peered at her glass, then at him. "And how is Kit?"

  His pulse leaped at the mere mention of Mrs. Mallory's name. His pulse and… other portions of his anatomy. He shifted on his chair. "I believe she is much improved, ma'am."

  "Good. What do you think of the girl?"

  One corner of his mouth twitched. He was sure the dowager didn't want to hear his salacious thoughts. "Girl? She is a bit old to be called that, don't you think?"

  "Oh, bosh. At my age, everyone younger than fifty is a mere babe. Besides, she's only five-and-twenty. Hardly long in the tooth."

  He raised an eyebrow. "And why are you telling me this, ma'am?"

  "Well, because I want your estimate of her character," she blustered.

  "She seems a pleasant enough lady," he hedged. "Then again, I must admit that I hardly know her." Though I find myself particularly eager to make her most… intimate acquaintance.

  She took another sip of brandy, coughed, and fanned her face with her kerchief. "No, no, stay there; I am quite all right. I met her onboard the Daphne, bound from Calcutta. She nursed me through that most dreadful passage; most of the time I was ill with horrible bouts of mal de mer. Eh… I do not wish to remember it too closely.

  "Kit is a delight, Nicholas, and not only because she sees me as a person, not as a doddering eccentric whose presence is to be tolerated. She treats me with respect and genuine affection, which is more than what I've received from my own family of late. Now, what do you think of that?"

  "Such a friendship is commendable, Your Grace."

  The dowager fixed him with a pointed stare. "Then why does no one else in this house seem to agree with you?"

  "Your Grace?"

  "Oh, come now, Bainbridge, it's as obvious as this beaky nose of mine. Do you think me blind as well as deaf?"

  "Neither, ma'am," the marquess was quick to reply.

  "Well, my grandson apparently does. And I think I know the reason."

  "And what would that be?"

  The dowager snorted. "They think she's after my money."

  "And you do not?" he inquired with great caution.

  "You must believe Wexcombe's absurd prating if you think me so dicked in the nob, Bainbridge. Kit is not after my money; her late husband left her flush in the pocket. Do you think I don't realize what all this is about? This sudden push to get me to give up my independence, and the reprehensible treatment of my young friend?"

  "You cannot blame Their Graces for being concerned for your welfare," Bainbridge gently replied.

  "Perhaps, but I will not let them ramrod me into giving up my independence. After forty years of marriage to a man I loathed, I am entitled to enjoy a measure of freedom, and I intend to do just that."

  "But at what cost, ma'am? You will be seventy-four on your next birthday. You have to slow down eventually."

  "Why? I feel right as rain. Oh, I get a little slower each year, I will agree, but other than that I am in prime twig." She set her glass on the end table and glowered at him. "Where do you stand in all this, Nicholas? No, do not bother to give me that innocent look. It won't fadge. You rarely come to these family house parties, and yet this year, here you are. Has my grandson enlisted you in this nefarious plot of his?"

  "What plot is that?"

  "Do not insult my intelligence, boy. He called you here to persuade me to retire to the dower house at Wexcombe Hall, and to stop embarrassing him."

  He raised his hands in protest. "I do not ascribe to those motives, I assure you. But I do fear for your safety, ma'am. Despite your protests, you are not as spry as you used to be, yet you insist on racketing around the world without apparent care for your health or your welfare. At times I wonder if you are trying to prove something to us."

  "I?" she blurted. "I am not trying to prove a thing. What an absurd notion."

  "We only want what is best for you."

  "What is best for me, Bainbridge," the dowager sniffed, "is for all of you to trust my judgment. I will decide when to settle down, and that is that."

  "You are uncommonly stubborn, Your Grace."

  She shrugged. "I do not wish to hear another word on the matter from you, Nicholas. Do you understand?"

  Wexcombe was right about one thing: when the dowager duchess got a notion into her head, trying to reason with her was like arguing with the wind-it went its own direction, no matter what you said. "Very well, Aunt Jo."

  The dowag
er nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now pour yourself a glass of brandy, Nicholas, and tell me what other nasty surprises are in store for me this week."

  Chapter Four

  Kit set down her pen with an aggravated sigh and massaged her cramped fingers. So much for trying to distract herself. At this rate, she would never finish translating Tulss's Ramayana. She stared at her handwriting, which was uncharacteristically halting and uneven and almost illegible, then at the smudges of ink on her fingertips. What a mess she'd made. Of everything.

  Propping her chin on the heel of one hand, Kit stared morosely out the windows at the clouds gathering on the horizon until her vision blurred at the edges. Why had she goaded the marquess like that? How foolish of her to think that she could give a rake a disgust of her through plain speaking. She'd been playing with fire; she should not have been surprised when the marquess gave her that scorching kiss.

  Her lips still tingled. She rubbed her mouth to dispel the sensation. Why her? Because she was a widow, a woman of experience? Kit snorted. That was a misnomer. George had been an indifferent husband; he had wanted a high-born wife who would lend credibility and panache to his business, and who would ornament his home. Ornament, indeed. She might as well have been one of the trophies mounted on the wall. When she protested, he had not cared a whit for her feelings. And he had been indifferent to her in their marital bed, as well. It was just as well that they'd never had children. Kit rubbed at the gooseflesh on her arms. For seven years she had convinced herself that she was undesirable, and now…

  The marquess had to be trifling with her. A family house party must seem quite dull to a Corinthian such as he, so he must be looking for a diversion. That was the only way she could explain that amazing kiss. She could still feel the insistent pressure of his mouth against hers, still smell his lingering scent on her skin…

  She shook herself. No. She must not be tempted by this forbidden fruit. She would not subject herself to another man's whims. First her father, then her husband-twice was quite enough, thank you very much.

  Kit returned her pen to its stand, closed the cap on the inkwell, and rose from the escritoire. Conversation with the dowager would ease her mind. She gave her hair a quick pat, then left her bedchamber and made her way to Her Grace's rooms.

  As she approached, the marquess emerged from the dowager's rooms and closed the door behind him. She came to an abrupt halt, turned, and was about to retreat back the way she'd come when his voice stopped her.

  "Mrs. Mallory. I had not thought to see you again so soon."

  Kit scowled at the teasing challenge in his voice. She swiveled to face him. "Good afternoon, my lord," she replied in clipped tones. "I shall not trouble you; I am on my way to see the dowager duchess."

  "You are too late, I fear," he replied with a slight smile. "She has just retired for a brief rest."

  "Oh." Kit tried not to let her disappointment show on her face. "Then I shall not disturb her. If you will excuse me-"

  "A moment." He drew near with long-legged strides. "I wish to speak with you."

  Kit's shoulders stiffened. "If you wish to apologize, my lord, I am willing to listen. Otherwise, I must bid you good day."

  "Apologize?" His smile broadened. "Why would I do that, when I am not sorry for a moment about what passed between us?"

  She stared at him, her mouth rounded in a perfect O. "Why do you persist in mocking me?"

  "I am not mocking you."

  "Then why did you kiss me?"

  "Because, my dear Mrs. Mallory, you need kissing. Passionately, thoroughly, and as often as possible."

  "Of all the-!" she sputtered. "Impudent-"

  "-insolent, impertinent, impolite… Rest assured, ma'am, I have heard the entire litany." An impatient expression erased his smile. "Now, will you kindly forgo your maidenly protestations and listen to me for a moment?"

  Kit closed her mouth with a snap. If the marquess continued to bait her like this, she would sound like a Billingsgate fishwife before the end of the week. "Very well, my lord."

  "Thank you." Raised voices rang from the vestibule: the duke and duchess. Lord Bainbridge gestured toward the other end of the hall. "Let us walk a while together; the gallery might afford us more privacy."

  Kit's heart did a strange flip at the thought of being alone with him, but her head did not forget so easily. "No more of your games, my lord."

  He spread his hands. "No games; you have my word. I only wish to discuss the welfare of the dowager duchess."

  Every instinct told her not to go, but the quiet concern in his voice overrode her better judgment. She flicked an alarmed glance to the dowager's door. "Is anything wrong?"

  He shook his head. "Not at the moment, no. She is merely a trifle fatigued. That is, however, what I wish to discuss with you."

  "Then you have my complete attention, sir."

  The marquess clasped his hands behind his back and began to wander down the hall toward the gallery. Kit fell into step a few paces to one side.

  "Apparently," began Lord Bainbridge, "the duke used today's outing as an opportunity to ask his grandmother to retire from society and move into the dower house at Wexcombe Hall. No, not ask. Demand. Such an approach did not sit well with Her Grace."

  "No, I imagine not," Kit replied tightly. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. "She suspected that the duke might try something like this; she told me he has been after her for months. Did he upset her very much?"

  The marquess shook his head. "She will recover, but she remains stubbornly opposed to the idea of giving up her adventures."

  "Of course she does. She is hardly in her dotage, after all."

  "But she is not getting any younger, either. And I know my cousin-he will keep at her until she consents."

  "Why do you tell me this?" She shot him a distrustful look.

  "Because my great-aunt considers you a friend. A very great friend. And I know she will listen to your counsel."

  Kit held up a warning hand. "If you are thinking of asking me to help you in this endeavor, I can tell you that I will have no part of it."

  The marquess frowned. "I must beg you to reconsider. The dowager duchess is a formidable lady, but I worry for her. She seems determined to prove to everyone just how independent she is, and she will go to any length to do so."

  "What makes you think that?" Kit demanded. They had reached the gallery, a long, wide hall that housed portraits of obscure ancestors dating back several centuries. Trying to ignore all the eyes that seemed to stare down at her from the walls, she halted, her hands on her hips. "If that is truly what you believe, then you are mistaken, my lord."

  He cocked his head to one side. "Am I?"

  She bit her lip. "I believe she behaves the way she does because she enjoys it. She wants to meet new people, travel to new places. Everything she was denied during her marriage to that stuffy old duke."

  He folded his arms across his chest. "You appear to have learned a great deal about her during your lengthy acquaintance."

  His sarcasm brought scalding heat to her cheeks. "On board ship, my lord, there is little to do but converse with one another and play chess to pass the time."

  "For six months? A rather dull prospect."

  "Not when one is speaking with the dowager duchess. She told me enough to know that we have much in common. Her only misfortune is that she was not widowed at an earlier age."

  "You astound me, ma'am," he drawled, clearly amused. "No more of this roundaboutation; I pray you speak your mind."

  She flushed. "What I am trying to say is that I have never known anyone else with such joie de vivre," she continued. "Her Grace delights in life, my lord, despite her advanced years. Every day is a new adventure."

  "But what happens when she overestimates her capacity for such adventure?" he argued.

  "What makes you think she will?" Kit shot back. "I believe that is what troubles her most: her own family does not trust her to know what is best. No one seems to bother to
talk to her at all, save to criticize her. How would you like it if your family were to think you nothing but an inconvenience?"

  Bainbridge sighed and thrust a hand through his hair, leaving it tousled as though he'd just risen from bed. Kit's blush deepened at the thought.

  "What makes you so fond of my great-aunt? Aside from her sense of adventure, that is. Forgive me, Mrs. Mallory, but the difference in your ages does not exactly lend itself to a sharing of common interests."

  Kit sidestepped him to stare up at a gilt-edged painting. "She is the closest friend I have ever had."

  "What, had you had none before you met her?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "Not really. Passing acquaintances, of course, but no bosom bows. My mother died when I was young, and afterward my father and I lived a rather insular existence in Hertfordshire. Several years later, when I made my debut, I discovered that his less-than-sterling reputation had tarnished me, as well; I received few invitations, and fewer offers. When I married George and went to India, the peers there looked down their noses at me because I'd married a Cit, and the Cits' wives did not like me because they believed I held myself above them, and that given the chance I would treat them as rudely as everyone else of my class did."

  Kit heard Bainbridge's soft footsteps on the carpet, coming closer.

  "What about your family? Did no one welcome you back home?" he murmured.

  He sounded like he was standing right behind her. She shivered. "No one, my lord."

  "Not even your father?"

  "I heard through my husband's solicitor that my father fled the country last year to escape his creditors. He never bothered with me after my marriage, and I have not kept in close contact with anyone else."

  His hands gently grasped her shoulders. "I am sorry," he said simply.

  "You need not be, my lord. Ever since Her Grace and I befriended each other, I have not been lonely." She eased away from his touch, then turned to face him. "But you must not think me selfish; I do not want to see Her Grace keep her independence just so I am guaranteed companionship. I would never think of her so meanly. I have spoken in her defense because I agree with her, and I want her to be happy."