How to Woo a Reluctant Lady

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Don’t you dare.” He caught her by the arm as she was on the verge of fleeing. “You know bloody well that you responded to that kiss.”

  With a suspicious glee in her eyes, she tugged her arm from his grip. “I’m not saying I didn’t respond—just that I didn’t respond to any overwhelming degree. But it was a good kiss, I suppose. Better than some, not as good as others.”

  “What the hell do you mean? How many chaps have you kissed in the last nine years, anyway?”

  “No more than you’ve kissed women, I should imagine.”

  “My God.”

  “But don’t worry—I don’t think the average woman would complain about your kissing. You’re perfectly competent.”

  Competent? Bloody insolent chit. Even knowing that she was trying to provoke him didn’t ease his wounded pride. “Perhaps we should try it again.”

  She darted back from him. “I think not. You really ought to go, Giles—my brothers will be none too pleased to find you here alone with me. They don’t approve of you for me at all.”

  That was true. Jarret had warned him away from Minerva only a few weeks ago.

  “And Gran positively despises you,” she went on. “She thinks you’re a bad influence on Gabe. Last week, she said that the next time she saw you—”

  She halted as if struck dumb, her gaze wandering to the sheaf of papers.

  “Yes? The next time she sees me . . .”

  “Oh my word, that’s brilliant.” Her gaze swung back to him. “You’re brilliant, Giles!”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past half hour,” he grumbled.

  “I mean it. This is the perfect solution to all my problems with Gran.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What is?”

  “You! And me! We’ll tell Gran that I’ve accepted your marriage proposal.” Minerva began to pace, her face flushed with excitement. “She’ll never approve. Seriously, she thinks you’re a ‘conscienceless scapegrace who would as soon sell his mother as behave honorably.’”

  He scowled. “I knew she wasn’t fond of me, but that’s a bit harsh. I’ll have you know I treat my mother damned well, considering that she spends all her time trying to marry me off to women half my age. And your entire family seems to overlook the fact that I am a well-respected barrister with a practice that is—”

  “Yes, yes, you’re a pillar of virtue.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re missing the point. Gran will never let me marry you. She’s always regretted letting Mama marry Papa, and you’re practically him.”

  “For God’s sake,” he said irritably, “are we back to that again?”

  “It’s the perfect plan. You pretend to be betrothed to me, and once she realizes I’m serious, she’ll stop this nonsense.”

  He liked this plan of hers less and less the more he heard of it. “It didn’t work for Oliver. He took Miss Butterfield as his pretend fiancée and look what happened. Not only did your grandmother hold fast to her plans, but he’s now married to the chit.”

  Minerva shot him an exasperated glance. “Gran liked Maria from the very beginning. She just pretended not to, which is why his plan didn’t work. Besides, it’s not the same for my brothers as it is for me and Celia. They can take care of themselves, and Gran knows it. Men have all the power in marriage—they can legally beat their wives, take their money, and force them into anything they please.”

  “I hope you’re not saying that I would—”

  “I’m just saying that’s why Gran wasn’t worried about whom Oliver or Jarret married. But she worries a great deal about whom Celia and I marry, because our future husbands will take us out of her control. Anything could happen.” A devilish gleam lit her eyes. “And you will send her into fits.”

  This was becoming annoying. “You underestimate your grandmother, my dear.”

  “Trust me, I know her too well to do that. But this will push her over the edge—I’m sure of it. The longer we’re betrothed, the more alarmed she’ll get.” She rounded on him with a little cry of delight. “And if she doesn’t, Jarret and Oliver will make sure she does! They definitely won’t approve of you as my husband. They’ll work on her to get her to relent, especially if they think I really mean to marry you.”

  She clapped her hands together. “Eventually I’ll have her exactly where I want her, and she’ll be forced to rescind her ultimatum. What a brilliant plan!”

  “Only if I agree to it. And I don’t.”

  That took the wind out of her sails. “Why not? All you have to do is court me.”

  “I don’t want to court you—I want to marry you. Tomorrow, if possible, although I suppose we could push it off a few days—”

  “I am not going to marry you, Giles!” She planted her hands on her hips. “Can’t you get that through your thick head?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Then why should I help you with your plan? What advantage is there to it for me?”

  That finally got through to her. She uttered a low curse that was decidedly unladylike. Then she began to pace again, this time with her pretty brow knit in a frown. “You do have a point. You have every reason to expect something in return.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I mean, you’ll have to make it a proper courtship, squiring me to balls and parties, giving me little gifts—”

  “I thought you said you didn’t like gifts,” Giles pointed out.

  “You have to make it convincing.”

  “Then I definitely expect compensation.” You in my bed would be good.

  But she’d never agree to that.

  “Compensation . . . compensation . . .” Suddenly she faced him, her face bright. “What if I kill off Rockton? Then you won’t have to worry about my books anymore.”

  He eyed her skeptically. “You’re not going to murder your most popular character.”

  “I can kill off whomever I please. And if I wish to do away with Rockton, I will.”

  “You don’t have to say it with such enthusiasm,” he grumbled, not sure he liked the fact that she could dispense with his character as easily as she might throw out an old gown. “Besides, aren’t you worried that killing Rockton will damage your future as an authoress? What if your readers stop buying your books as a result?”

  “If I have to marry some officious lord to please Gran, I won’t be able to write any books.” When he opened his mouth, she said, “And no, I didn’t mean you. If I married you, you’d make sure I never wrote about Rockton again, so either way, he’s got to go.”

  He closed his mouth. It was unnerving how she sometimes read his mind.

  “So how about it?” she said brightly. “Will you agree to be my pretend fiancé if I agree to kill off Rockton?”

  He could point out that killing off Rockton wouldn’t prevent her from starting over with another character based on him. He could reiterate that her plan was doomed to failure—that her grandmother was no fool and would never let her granddaughter pull the strings. He could argue yet again that Minerva ought to just marry him. But that argument wasn’t working so far, and as long as her wall of misconceptions about him remained, it never would.

  He wished he could tell her the truth—about why he’d stolen the papers, what he’d been doing since, why she had to keep silent about their encounter. But he couldn’t.

  For one thing, he didn’t trust her. Writers were magpies—they took bits of things and wove them together to make their stories. She had no reason to protect his interests . . . or those of his superiors. For God’s sake, she’d already made him into a spy—that was skirting far too close to the truth for his comfort. If anyone recognized the bits from her novels and his theft was unveiled, he wouldn’t be the only one to suffer.

  Ravenswood would be forced to explain why the government had countenanced a theft from a well-known lord’s home, performed by a private citizen. Newmarsh would almost certainly want vengeance for it, considering that he’d been exiled from England for his part in the fraud. And everyo
ne in Giles’s sphere who’d found himself in trouble with the Home Office would assume it was Giles who’d put them there. That couldn’t possibly help his career.

  He simply couldn’t risk telling her the truth about that night. Minerva was too unpredictable to trust with his future.

  Besides, if he could skate past this issue until they were married, it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t be working for Ravenswood anymore; she’d have no reason to suspect him of anything. In time she’d lose interest in that one theft, and his secrets would fade into the past where they belonged.

  If he married her. And he fully intended to. Agreeing to her plan wasn’t a bad idea, actually. He could court her and let her get to know him. They would be in each other’s pockets for weeks, possibly months, and if he couldn’t convince her to marry him in that amount of time, he deserved to lose her.

  A sudden bellow from somewhere in Halstead Hall’s 356 rooms broke the stillness. “Minerva! Damn it, Minerva, where are you?”

  Minerva jumped. “Oh, Lord, that’s Oliver. He’s probably coming to lecture me about this whole interviewing business. What do you say, Giles? I need your answer now.”

  “First, I want another kiss,” he said, stepping toward her. “To help me make up my mind.”

  She colored. “Absolutely not. And don’t think that this pretend courtship will include kissing, because it won’t.”

  He eyed her askance. “Why not, if you find my kissing so uninspiring? Why should you care if from time to time I give you one of my merely ‘competent’ kisses?”

  “Drat it, Giles, we don’t have time for this!”

  “Kissing is part of it, or no deal,” he said firmly.

  “Minerva!” roared Oliver from much closer.

  She hurried to the door and opened it, then came back to him with a frustrated expression. “All right. From time to time you may kiss me, I suppose.”

  “Then I agree to your terms.” He stepped nearer. “So let’s seal our bargain with a kiss.” He was going to get another crack at it if it killed him.

  “Are you mad? If Oliver sees us kissing, you won’t get the chance to court me—it’ll be duels at dawn.”

  “How do you know it won’t be duels at dawn when you tell him you’ve accepted my proposal of marriage?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not that hotheaded. Though I daresay he may try to . . . er . . . knock some sense into you. He and Jarret. And possibly Gabe.”

  “Our bargain is looking better and better all the time,” he said drily. “I get to fight the Sharpe men while you stand around pretending to care.” He came close enough to whisper, “I will definitely require a few kisses of you if that comes to pass, minx.”

  “Step back!” she hissed just as the door swung fully open.

  “Damn it, Minerva,” Oliver began, “come out and tell these idiots—”

  He broke off, the scowl on his dark brow deepening. “What the deuce is going on here? Masters, I thought you were in the study, waiting for Jarret.”

  Minerva faced her brother with a forced smile. “Actually, he came to be interviewed.”

  That was Giles’s cue. “Sorry for the subterfuge, old chap, but I thought you’d forgive it in this case.” He slipped his hand into the small of her back. “You see, your sister has made me the happiest of men. Minerva has finally agreed to be my wife.”

  Chapter Three

  Over my dead body!”

  Hetty heard Oliver’s roar from two halls over and hurried toward it as fast as her cane could take her. He must have found Minerva. Damned girl. Why couldn’t she just marry some decent fellow and be done with it? Why did she have to drum up this nonsense about interviewing fools she solicited in the papers like a common whore?

  Well, Oliver would put an end to that—he wouldn’t want Minerva marrying some stranger either, thank God.

  She followed the sound of heated voices into the Chinese drawing room, then stopped short. Oliver was squared off against that rogue Giles Masters—God only knew when he had snuck in. And Minerva stood with her hand tucked in the crook of Giles’s elbow.

  “What has happened?” Hetty demanded.

  Oliver shot her an angry glance. “Masters has some idiotic idea that he’s going to marry Minerva.”

  Hetty dragged in a breath. Masters? With her granddaughter? Never.

  “Of course,” Oliver went on, “I’ve just informed him that it’s impossible.”

  “You don’t get to decide that,” Minerva said stoutly. “I’m the only one who decides whom I marry. Besides, you’ve been pressing me to marry just as much as Gran. So why should you care who I choose?”

  “Because it’s Masters,” Oliver said, “and he’s—”

  “A gentleman,” Minerva said.

  “You have no idea what he is,” Oliver bit out. “Give me five minutes, and I can tell you stories that would blister your ears.”

  “I’m sure you could,” Minerva said. “You’re probably in every one of them. Don’t you think it’s hypocritical of you to malign his character when it’s no worse than your own has been?”

  “Are you just going to let her go off with this scoundrel?” Oliver asked Hetty.

  Minerva shot Hetty a sly glance. “You gave no rules for whom we could marry, Gran, just when we had to marry.”

  “I don’t give a damn about Gran’s rules,” Oliver snapped. “You can’t marry Masters. As head of this household, I forbid it. He’s unworthy of you.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” Masters said mildly. “But she doesn’t seem to agree, and that’s all that matters.”

  Oliver’s fingers curled into fists at his side. “Angling after her inheritance, are you?”

  Masters bristled. “Careful, Stoneville. We’ve been friends a long time, so just this once, I’ll excuse your insult to my honor. I have no designs on Minerva’s inheritance or her dowry. She can keep it all if she wishes. You can put that in the settlement.”

  Hetty watched Minerva to see what response that got. The start the girl gave when the word settlement was spoken gave Hetty pause.

  “So you mean to support her on a barrister’s pay?” Oliver snapped.

  A dark flush rose in Masters’s face. “I can afford to keep a wife well enough, if that’s your concern.”

  Could that be true? Masters was well known for his competence as a barrister, but many a man of the law spent his evenings in whorehouses and gaming hells, where his money drifted away like desert sands. By all reports, Masters was one of them.

  Just then Jarret and Gabe came in. “We got rid of most of those fools,” Jarret said, “but some are—Masters? I thought you were in the study waiting for me.”

  “No,” Oliver ground out. “He’s in here, coaxing Minerva into marrying him.”

  “The hell he is!” Jarret growled at the same time that Gabe cried, “We’ll just see about that!”

  The men began to close in on Masters, who stood there with an odd glitter of defiance in his eyes.

  “That’s enough!” Hetty said sharply. “All of you, out. I wish to speak to Mr. Masters alone.”

  “Let us handle this, Gran,” Jarret said.

  “I will not have you brawling in your mother’s favorite drawing room.” She made a shooing gesture. “Go on, out with the lot of you. You too, Minerva. The only person who gets to decide if Mr. Masters is an acceptable suitor is me.”

  The others hesitated, then moved reluctantly toward the door. All except Oliver. He came up close to Hetty to murmur, “I’m the one who should make this decision. I’m the head of this household.”

  “Who has spent the past few hours trying to undo the damage that your sister’s latest shenanigan has wrought.” Hetty glanced past him to where Minerva was lingering, trying to hear what they were saying.

  Hetty lowered her voice. “You cannot control the girl any more than I. She is long past the age of consent, and she will do as she pleases. I daresay she is hoping I will cut her off so she can molder in a cottage s
omewhere writing her books. She will keep getting into trouble until I give in or you and your brothers fight duels with half the county. It is time for another tack.”

  “Involving Masters, of all men?”

  “I don’t like it any better than you. But before we decide anything, let me talk to him.”

  “Fine. As long as I get my shot at him after.” Oliver threw Masters a foul glance on his way out the door.

  Masters returned it with a cool nod.

  Once they were alone, Gran hobbled over to the brandy decanter atop a chinoiserie chest. “Something to drink, Mr. Masters?”

  “None for me, thank you.”

  With a sly glance at him, she poured herself a glass. “Come now, I know you are no green lad.”

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Plumtree, I prefer to keep my wits about me in the presence of a master of manipulation like yourself.”

  A chuckle escaped her. “You always were forthright.” She sipped her brandy. “So why not continue to be forthright, and tell me what this is really about?”

  He eyed her warily. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  She snorted. “My granddaughter has fought the idea of marriage for nine years now. There is no chance in hell that she decided to marry you just because you happened to show up to visit Jarret today.”

  “Actually, I came here purposely to interview for the position of her husband.”

  That took Hetty by surprise. “You read of it in The Ladies Magazine?”

  “Exactly.”

  This got more interesting by the moment. “And you decided you were going to put aside your scapegrace ways and trot over here to make her your wife. For no other reason than you heard she was interviewing men to find a husband.”

  He smiled faintly. “No other reason.”

  “You do realize she is just using you to annoy me.”

  A moment passed while he searched her face. “I know.”

  Hetty went on a hunch. “She is hoping I will be so outraged by her choice that I will give up on asking her to marry.”

  “Asking?” he said, a sudden glitter in his eyes. “Is that what you call it?”