A Lady's Guide to Passion and Property

by Kate Moore

  —The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

  Chapter 16

  Lucy thought it not least among the delights of the musical evening at the Marquis of Hertford’s house that she could easily lose herself among the five hundred or more guests and one Italian opera company. Miss Throckmorton would never find her in such a crush.

  She gladly followed Cordelia and Cassandra to a small salon where a mere hundred guests gathered to hear the new musical director of the English Opera House. He had composed an opera in English, soon to be performed featuring the soprano, Miss Cawse, a great favorite of Lucy’s friends. As they hurried forward, and as other guests made way for them in their distinctive matching gowns, Lucy slipped to the back of the crowd. She found a convenient marble column against which to stand. The nearby door of a small antechamber admitted a slight, refreshing stir of night air.

  For three days Harry Clare had been absent from London, or at least from those gatherings where Lucy was to cast her net for a husband. She had a chance to consult her little book. It made her laugh. It revealed much of the society around her, but it did not explain the perplexing behavior of her own heart. She had now received compliments from a handsome young baron, a brilliant inventor, and several dashing, if untitled, gentlemen. It remained a puzzle how a man who had, at best, a few words for her at the end of an evening, always words about her absent friend or her missing cat, framed as a military field report, could be so necessary to her pleasure at an evening’s entertainment. Only once when he’d found her in the woods had she thought him interested her. The intensity in his gaze said he wanted what she wanted.

  * * * *

  She had said the event was a musicale. Harry thought it more like one of the mass gatherings of protestors the army had been called upon to quell at the end of the war. And he would have spent hours searching for her except for the Fawkener sisters’ habit of dressing so completely alike that every footman had noted their passing from the grand salon of the house into a smaller room with a less famous musician. It helped that Harry knew the house. He’d once courted a girl here.

  He’d changed since then. The army had been good for him even if he had had to give up being the boy he had been. He had liked the army, but hated that he was expected as an officer to despise his men, to regard them as the scum of the earth. He could not disrespect a man willing at a given moment to face fire and give his life for another man. Nor could he despise the man who kept his gear and himself in order, willing to march twenty miles in a day and fight the next. Finally, he had been unable to lead British troops against British subjects on British soil, so he’d left the army.

  Lucy Holbrook now wore the disguise contrived by her friends for battle of a different sort with the Miss Throckmortons of the world. When he’d first seen her standing on the gnarled root ball of a hollow tree, he had thought her altered beyond recognition. His practical princess had changed her wool dress and pinny for an elegant silk gown for a picnic in the woods. She had spoken of his touch, and he’d thought at once of what lay under those silks. The sisters must have supplied her with a lady’s maid, who could lace her stays. The sensible front-closing corset would lie in a drawer until her return to the inn, if she did return. But when she spoke, she was the innkeeper’s daughter, the woman who patiently held an old man’s hand, fed a cat, and didn’t hesitate to do the work she asked of others. The relief of it had been profound.

  Three days without a glimpse of her had been quite enough. The delay with the case frustrated him. He had resisted Lucy Holbrook as long as duty required, but he did not think he could resist any longer. He had shed one uniform. He was ready to shed another.

  He didn’t know what to tell her about the missing cat.

  * * * *

  The column at Lucy’s back was exquisite, and the music was sublime, by turns lilting and soaring, but she was in danger of succumbing to the heat of the room and the length of the composition. She raised a hand to cover her mouth, when her wrist was seized in a firm grip, and she was drawn behind the column through the anteroom door and brought face-to-face with Harry Clare. She put out her free hand to check her momentum and pressed against wool and silk and male.

  “Hello,” he said, teasing lights in his eyes. “Waiting for someone?”

  “I was engrossed in the music,” she said. She was firmly on her feet now and should withdraw her hand, but the hard strength of him was so satisfying to the touch.

  He laughed. “Confess. I caught you in a yawn.”

  “Only because of the heat of the room and the lateness of the hour. You know I am not yet accustomed to London ways.”

  One brow rose. “Aren’t you? You know how to avoid your chaperones to have a private moment with a gentleman.”

  “Unfair. You pulled me away when I was simply trying to catch what little movement of air there is in such crowded rooms.” She curled her fingers closed and let her hand fall away from his chest.

  “Is it air you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure?”

  “Air,” she said firmly.

  “Come with me, then.” He tucked her arm in his and led her out of the anteroom into a long shadowy corridor. At its end they took a flight of steps and then another until Lucy was breathless. He paused only to open a door that looked to be a closet, but which concealed a narrow unlit wooden stairway.

  “Hold on,” he advised.

  There was no chance that she was letting go. They went more slowly until he opened a door and cool night air met them. He helped her out onto the roof of the grand mansion. The lights of Mayfair glimmered in the darkness below, the soft circles of carriage lamps, the flare of torches to light the mansion steps, and candles in windows across the square.

  “You know your way around this place.” She leaned against the parapet and shivered at the contact with cold stone, and he shed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  He leaned next to her. “I was here once before. I came home from the Peninsula after Fuentes de Oroño to recover from a wound.”

  “And brought a young lady to the rooftop?”

  “I did,” he admitted.

  “And did she like the view?”

  “Yes, but not the idea of marrying me.”

  “You made an offer of marriage to a lady on this rooftop?”

  “She refused me.”

  She turned to look at him, unsure from his tone how he felt about the revelation. His profile looked as unmoved as ever. “Because you are a younger son.”

  “That explanation might soothe my pride, but I think she didn’t love me.”

  Lucy wanted to argue that it couldn’t be true. “You were young?” she said.

  “Nineteen.”

  “Perhaps you did not cast a wide enough net for a wife.”

  “And I had no wife hunter’s book to guide me. What does your book say about going to a rooftop with a gentleman alone?”

  “Oh, my book says, don’t do it! My book says I may offer only the warmth of my gaze and the pressure of my hand as signs of favor to any gentleman to whom I am not betrothed.”

  “And should such a gentleman, not being a reader of the book himself, importune you for further signs of your favor?”

  “Would such a gentleman make impertinent advances to an innkeeper’s daughter?”

  “Oh yes. He might take her hand...” He took Lucy’s hand as he spoke. “And draw her close to him, gauging her resistance each step of the way.”

  Lucy held her breath, offering no resistance as he fitted her body against his, joining them from breast to hip.

  “And he’d keep his gaze fixed on her mouth, looking for her to turn that mouth up to him with parted lips.”

  “Oh.” The syllable escaped her, caught in the act of opening to him, and for an instant she leaned back. Then she laughed and shook her head and lifted her fa
ce to his again. And he kissed her.

  And it was the thing she’d been wanting without knowing that she wanted it, without knowing what it would be, discovering as it went on how right it felt to be held in just this way, and how by answering the pressure of his mouth with hers she could speak to him from her heart as freely and frankly as she had ever spoken to anyone.

  His arms tightened around her. The kiss extended from their mouths to every place where their bodies strained against each other. She wrapped her arms around his ribs, holding on, feeling the play of muscle in his back.

  A part of her brain tried to catalogue everything she needed to remember about the moment, the cat’s tongue roughness along his jaw, the deeper note in his voice, the way his hands cupped her head, his fingers pushing into her hair, his thumbs against her cheeks, and the longing of his person for hers.

  The joy of it made her dizzy. A kiss was such a small distance closed. A yielding of but a few steps would go unnoticed on the battlefield in the surge of combat, but between lovers meant the end of resistance, the laying down of arms in a shared victory.

  The rattle of carriage wheels and a burst of laughter below them woke Lucy from the dream.

  He broke the kiss, slackening his hold, stepping back, his hands slipping away from her waist. He worked to command his breathing. He became himself again, the soldier, saying in a light tone, “That’s probably enough impertinence for one evening. I will return you to your friends.”

  No. She wanted to protest. She had received no training at Mrs. Thwayte’s School in how to stop a kiss. All that she’d learned there about giving up her seat near the fire and never taking the last biscuit from the tray had not prepared her for the consuming desire she felt. One did not ache for a seat by the fire or a biscuit.

  Sense intruded. They were in London. She was in the care of her friends. She swallowed and nodded. He extended his arm, and she took it, letting him lead her on shaky legs back to the stairs.

  They could hear wild clapping as they retraced their steps to the salon. He stopped her at the door of the anteroom, giving her a quick scrutiny, as if her unaltered outward appearance could restore them to mere acquaintance.

  She stood her ground and lifted a brow.

  Then his face changed. A laugh that made him seem young and foolish, but wiser for such foolishness, shook him and lightened his expression, chased away the furrows on his brow. “You’ve won, you know. Duty is no match for you.” His look acknowledged the truth. “I’ll come for you tomorrow,” he said.

  She nodded, understanding the blunt, soldierly declaration of intent. And suddenly they were grinning at each other. He lifted her mouth for one more searing kiss, and turned away.

  * * * *

  Leaving the highwayman’s house was easier than Miranda imagined. After a supper of roast chicken and bread, they had dressed as warmly as they could in what was left of their clothes and contrived a way for Nate to tuck his injured arm inside his coat. He fashioned a closed lamp out of a hooded candleholder fitted with a glowing coal from their fire and the stub of a candle. When the house was quiet, they left the pretty room, and Nate reached under the wainscot on the wall to open a concealed jib door to a servants’ stair. He lit their lamp, and they descended. The stair ended in a hall lined with the little rooms where the work of the house was done. The hall was lit, so Nate extinguished their candle and drew Miranda along after him.

  No one stopped them as they stepped out into the night. Somewhere deep in the house a dog barked once and was silenced. Miranda’s heart pounded, and over the beat of it she tried to listen to Nate’s breathing. It sounded to her as if he had been running. They had agreed not to speak until they reached the shelter of the trees on either side of the long drive.

  Nate led them swiftly across the gravel of the drive, which sounded in Miranda’s ears like the crunching of a dog’s teeth on bones. She breathed more easily as they crossed the damp grass and stepped into the shadows of the drive. Nate offered her the lamp and took her other hand in his, tugging her along the edge of the drive. His hand felt warm and sweaty in spite of the cold air, and his breath came in pants of exertion. She wanted him to slow down, but their plan depended on reaching the gate under cover of darkness.

  In the dark, unseen things reached for her and brushed her bonnet and her face with wet tendrils or snagged and tore at her dress. What had seemed a short distance on the back of the highwayman’s horse now seemed an endless march. Her shoes were wet, her toes cold, and her side ached. Traveling with Nate Wilde was decidedly hard on a woman’s fashionable appearance, and she would tell him so, just as soon as they reached a comfortable inn.

  The faint pale strip of the drive kept them on a straight uphill course. It occurred to Miranda that the drive might be a couple of miles in length. She pushed herself to keep pace with Nate. At last she could see a tiny pinpoint of light that must come from the lodge. She hoped Nate had a plan for dealing with the gatekeeper.

  The road took a dip and rose again toward the light. They were close now. Then abruptly Nate’s hand slipped from hers, and he crumpled. He hit the ground with a thud. Miranda put down the lamp and reached for him. He was out cold, covered in sweat. She pulled his head and shoulders into her lap. She reached for the lamp, knocked it, and heard it clatter away from her in the dark. They had come so close to the gate.

  “Nate Wilde,” she whispered. “Wake up.”

  He didn’t stir. His limbs felt lifeless, and the sweat seemed to dry up on his brow. She shoved her hand into his coat and felt for his heart. It still beat.

  If she was being punished, the punishment was deserved. She was the one who had flirted with gentlemen in the shop, telling stories of her mother and the shoe buckles. She was the one who had foolishly loved Lord Hazelwood and hidden the note he’d asked her to deliver. Because she’d failed to deliver the note, Jane Fawkener had been kidnapped by the Russian spy Malikov and the club had been closed.

  But hadn’t her papa shown her Mama’s silver buckles and given her Mama’s thimble? And was it so wrong to want a mother who’d been brave and clever and escaped the Revolution? And hadn’t her mother named her Miranda, who was a duke’s daughter in a play?

  She hugged Nate tighter.

  A heavy hand fell on her shoulder.

  Miranda shrieked.

  “It’s just me, Miranda,” said a deep familiar voice, “your amiable and much aggrieved host. After the care I’ve provided, to go sneaking off in the night? What a troublesome pair you are.”

  The flare of a lantern illuminated Nate’s crumpled form in her lap. Miranda held on tight.

  “You have to let go, sweetheart. We have to get him back to the house.”

  Spirits—those which bubble up in the husband hunter’s glass and those which arise spontaneously in her breast—are great provokers of the wrong word. In an instant a thought flashes from her mind to her tongue and cannot be recalled. She stands among her companions with her frailties revealed in a new and glaring light. She must acknowledge the fault and yet take heart. The suitor who abandons her for one piece of folly is not worthy. The mortifying moment of indiscretion will pass and be forgotten by those who understand her character more fully. And every wrong word, except those uttered in spite, may be forgiven.

  —The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

  Chapter 17

  Miranda leaned back against the silken headboard and closed her eyes. Just for a minute. She didn’t know what else she could do to bring Nate Wilde back to his senses soon.

  She had endured their host’s scorn and a severe scold from the sturdy maid on the night of their attempted escape. Her shoes and clothes had been beyond saving with mud and tears. She had accepted a cast-off kerseymere gown the color of potatoes and a pair of yellow lady’s pumps sadly out of fashion. She ached from bending over Nate to sponge his brow or turn him on his side, or hold his h
ead to pour some draught down his throat. Her hair was lifeless and flat against her scalp. She was out of tooth powder, the borrowed gown smelled a bit lived in, and her hands were raw from washing them every time she tended Nate.

  Nothing had gone according to plan. Captain Clare hadn’t come for them. Her papa must be most distressed by now to have no word of her. They’d been a burden and an expense to their captor, who had laughed at Miranda’s attempt to pay the doctor from the purse Nate carried. She should have stayed at home. She should have accepted that she was a shopkeeper’s daughter. Her papa kept an excellent shop on a fashionable street. She should have been content to show gentlemen the elegant brushes and the fragrant lotions, soaps, and balms. She should not have gone dreaming such lofty dreams of being a lady with a fine lord for a husband.

  She was not so sure she liked fine lords any longer. Whoever their captor was, he was heartless and mocking. And the worst of it all was that it was all her fault. If she had not broken her promise to Lord Hazelwood, none of this would be happening. The club would be open, Nate would be there making coffee for the spies, and she would be in Papa’s shop in her prettiest clothes.

  Hot silent tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks, and her nose ran, and she felt too tired to care.

  “Fine protector I turned out to be.” Nate’s voice made her open her eyes. His hand, moving across the counterpane, found her knee. “Are you crying?” he asked.

  She wiped her arm under her nose. “No. Are you in your senses again?”

  “I think so,” he said. “How long have I been out?”

  “Days.”

  “Our captor hasn’t offered you any insult, has he?”

  “As if he would deign to notice a shop girl in a potato sack.”

  “You’re beautiful. Every man notices you.” His hand found hers and squeezed. “I missed you.”