by Cara Elliott
Olivia wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Passing through the doors, she lifted her face to catch the evening breeze. The cool air felt good on her overheated skin. “I have a feeling you haven’t invited me out here to discuss cooking, sir.”
John turned and carefully folded his hands behind his back. Silhouetted in the shimmering firelight of the torchieres, his dark-clad shoulders looked even bigger than she recalled, their solid, sloping breadth accentuating the tapered waist and long, lean lines of his legs.
“A sharp guess,” he said dryly. The hint of humor didn’t quite cover his embarrassment. “I, er, wasn’t planning on coming here at all. However, I was hoping to find you in attendance, so that we might have a word about this morning.”
“Your son is a very engaging boy,” she said quietly. “I enjoyed meeting him.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your patience. And kindness. Lads of that age and, er, liveliness, can be trying.”
“On the contrary. I think spirit and exuberance ought to be encouraged in children. They should have some freedom to explore and discover the world on their own terms.”
The scudding shadows hid the earl’s expression, but Olivia heard him expel a long breath.
“I fear that Prescott may be a tad too exuberant. The tale he told you…” Another chuff of air as he shifted his stance to stare out over the garden. Pale gold glimmers of torchlight threaded through his windblown hair, softening the chiseled lines of his profile. “I was hoping…that is, I would be grateful if you would not mention it around Town.”
“I assure you, Lord Wrexham, I am not wont to gossip about people and their private lives.”
“Thank you.” His relief was palpable.
“There is no need for thanks. I am merely doing what any honorable person should do.” She paused and then impishly added, “But then again, given my odd notions of ladylike propriety, perhaps you question my honor?”
“Miss Sloane, I assure you that the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Granted, you have, er, unusual ideas for a female. But I…I…”
“I am joking, sir,” said Olivia. “I couldn’t resist. You always look so serious. So solemn.”
“Do I?”
He smiled, and as a spark from the torchiere caught on its curl, Olivia felt a shiver of fire dance down her spine. Just for an instant, she wondered what it would be like to be kissed by him. Would it be a mere, perfunctory brushing of lips? Somehow that firm, sensual mouth seemed to whisper silent promises of stronger passions.
John turned a fraction, breaking the enchantment. The flare of light died as shadows swallowed his face.
Oh, what moonlight madness has taken hold of me? Olivia was ruefully aware of needing a steel corset to cage the longings that all of a sudden were hammering against her ribs.
“Indeed,” she said, mustering a show of outward calm. “You have a countenance made for teasing, Lord Wrexham.” Her gaze moved back to the ballroom’s blur of colorful silks and sparkling crystal. “We ought to be going in, sir.”
And you have a countenance made for kissing. The thought leapt unbidden into his head as John offered his arm to Olivia.
Don’t, he warned himself. Don’t find her molten jade eyes so intriguing. Don’t find her inner spark so fascinating. Hell, it was dangerous to play with fire. Flames could so easily flare out of control.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “Have you started to read Hingham’s new essays?”
“Yes,” she replied. “And I find them extremely interesting. He has some very thought-provoking ideas on what a government owes all its citizens, regardless of their wealth or rank.”
“I stopped at Hatchards. Unfortunately you were right and the only copy in London is currently in your possession. I ordered one for myself, but it will take several weeks to arrive.”
He paused as they passed through the open doors, unwilling to end the conversation just yet. Keeping hold of her hand, he sidestepped behind the marble statue of Terpsichore, the Greek goddess of dance. “Which is a pity. You see, I am preparing a speech for the upcoming debate in the House of Lords on caring for our veteran soldiers and had hoped to become familiar with his theories on social justice.”
“Some of them are quite radical.” Her voice seemed to hold a slight note of challenge.
“I like to think I am open-minded enough to consider all points of view before I make up my mind on an issue, Miss Sloane.”
“Then you are very different from most of your lordly peers,” she answered. “Whose primary concern is to preserve their own privilege and position regardless of the cost.”
“Change is frightening to most people,” he agreed. “Yet the world is changing all around us, and those in power have a duty not to turn a blind eye to it.”
Her expression underwent an odd little transformation, though John could not describe it in words.
“You surprise me, sir. I would have expected a former military officer to be more rigid in his thinking.”
“And I would have expected a lady who takes pride in her keen intellect to be less rigid in her assumptions.”
Olivia flushed, turning her skin a delicious shade of pink. For one mad moment, Wrexham was tempted to touch his tongue to the pulse point at her throat. The tiny tremoring of flesh was intensely erotic.
“I stand corrected,” she said in a husky murmur. “If you would like, I would be happy to loan you my copy.”
“I would be exceedingly grateful. Might I call on you tomorrow and pick it up?”
“Oh, er…” Her eyes flared in alarm. “I’m afraid I need it for another day or two, and then I will be most happy to pass it on. As for fetching it in person, I don’t think that would be wise, Lord Wrexham. It would be better for you to send a footman, rather than come yourself. I would rather that my mother not see you.”
“Have I grown scales or spots?” he inquired dryly. “Or some other malady that might render my person abhorrent to her?”
Olivia shook her head. “On the contrary. She might get the wrong idea and actually think you were interested in me, not my book. And I assure you, sir, that wouldn’t be very pleasant for you. If she scents a whiff of interest, my mother is more dogged than a foxhound in pursuing a title.” Her mouth quirked a sardonic smile. “Especially if it’s attached to a plump purse.”
“Thank you for the warning, Miss Sloane. But I’ve survived hand-to-hand combat with Napoleon’s most fearsome Hussars.
She made a face. “You haven’t met my mother.”
He smiled. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Frankly, it’s not just you I am concerned about, sir. Mama has all but given up hope of my ever attaching an eligible gentleman, so she leaves me in peace. If she thinks—mistakenly, of course—that you have any interest in me, she’ll begin pestering me to death about my appearance and my need to behave with ladylike manners.”
“Which are, I take it, not high on your list of priorities.”
“No, Lord Wrexham, they are not.” Her chin took on a pugnacious tilt, as if she were defying him to disagree. “The truth is, I don’t give a whit if people think me a handmaiden of Medusa.”
“Speaking of Medusa,” he murmured, watching an unruly curl slither over her cheek. “Your hair has snaked free.”
“Oh, drat.”
But before she could fix the loosened pin, he reached out and brushed it back.
Olivia recoiled as if singed.
“Sorry,” apologized John, though he itched to peel off his glove and twine his fingers through the red-sparked auburn strands. They looked soft as spun thistledown.
Touching her face, she inched away. “Is your betrothed not in London, sir?”
“My…” Still entranced by the sinuous sight, he needed a moment to puzzle out her meaning. “My son is mistaken. I have no agreement with the lady in question.”
“Ah.” For someone who professed little interest in ballroom frivolities, Olivia suddenly appeared enthralled by the figures of a lively c
ountry gavotte. Eyes locked on the dance floor, she added, “Your son will be greatly relieved to hear that you aren’t going to be marrying the Steel Corset.”
John wasn’t quite sure how he had slipped onto such dangerous terrain. The parquet seemed to have shifted into a quagmire of quicksand, and he felt himself slowly sinking.
“I—I didn’t say that.” he shuffled his feet. “Not precisely.”
“Well, either you are or you aren’t,” she said dryly. “It doesn’t seem that there’s any middle ground. Unless, of course, you mean to make her your cher amie.”
He stood speechless, telling himself he ought to be shocked beyond words. She was utterly outrageous. Instead, he had to choke down the ungentlemanly urge to laugh. The truth was, he found her company…provocative. He had never met a lady as interesting or knowledgeable about so many different topics.
Including ones with which she ought not be familiar.
“Miss Sloane,” he wheezed, trying to look stern. “A gently bred female is not supposed to know—”
“Is not supposed to know anything interesting,” she finished for him. “Yes, I am aware of that.” Her lashes fluttered in annoyance, setting off a winking of golden sparks. “Ye gods, is it any wonder that men seek out mistresses, seeing as the highborn ladies they are compelled to take as wives have been trained from the cradle to be bland and boring as boiled oats?”
“I’m not sure this is a conversation we ought to be having,” John murmured.
“Of course it isn’t,” shot back Olivia. “We might actually engage in a meaningful exchange of ideas. I’d actually be curious to hear your reasons for having a ladybird.”
“I don’t…” John realized he was blushing. “I don’t intend to discuss such a singularly inappropriate topic with you.”
She muttered something under her breath. Something that sounded suspiciously close to “prig.”
They stood for a moment in awkward silence, watching the glitter of diamond-bright light play over the swirl of colorful silks. John couldn’t help feeling his own inner thoughts were spinning in the same confusing, conflicting blur of patterns.
Bloody hell.
The music finally came to end, and the couples began to move away from the dance floor.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir. I see my sister beckoning.” Without waiting for a response, Olivia turned on her heel and stalked off.
Chapter Eleven
An intriguing pair of sisters, don’t you think?”
John looked around to see Lord Davenport leaning against one of the stone columns, one hand toying with the tails of his carelessly tied cravat.
“They certainly stand apart from the crowd of colorless chits being paraded on the Marriage Mart,” continued the marquess. “A pity they haven’t a feather to fly with.”
John grunted in reply.
“Ah, but then, you don’t have to marry for money.”
“No,” he said curtly. “I don’t.”
“Lucky you,” drawled Davenport. Straightening from a slouch, he took a long swallow of his champagne. “But surely you aren’t naïve enough to marry for love.”
“God perish the thought.” Signaling to a nearby footman for a glass of wine, John assumed a sullen silence, hoping the other man would take the hint and go away. He was in no mood for company.
But by some perverse stroke of luck, his wave caught the attention of two gentlemen who had just emerged from the card room.
“Ah, there you are, Wrexham.” The earl recognized the taller of the pair as the Duke of Sommers, whose holdings included several vast estates in Lincolnshire and Durham. “Lumley and I have been looking for you.”
“I can’t imagine why,” he murmured somewhat ungraciously. Hell, he hardly knew the fellows.
“Actually, we have a common interest,” said the duke smoothly. “One that draws all gentlemen of superior rank and intellect together in these tumultuous times.”
“A common interest and a common cause,” added Viscount Lumley. “We understand you intend to give a speech on the upcoming reform bill.”
“Yes,” said John, regretting his show of rudeness. “I am glad to hear that you agree with me on the principles involved. We members of the House of Lords have a responsibility to act for the good of the country. It is a very important issue.”
“Indeed, it is,” agreed Sommers.
“Which is why we are sure that you will want to reconsider your position, once you understand the fundamental error of your thinking,” said Lumley. “You see, you have it all wrong.”
“Pray, do go on,” he said quietly. “I am anxious to hear how I have got it all wrong.”
Lumley smiled broadly, seemingly oblivious to the note of irony in the earl’s voice. “The fact is, coddling our returning soldiers would be a horrendous mistake! Good God, Wrexham—surely you see that. A pension will only encourage laziness. A man should have to earn his bread with an honest day’s work.”
John regarded Lumley’s overfed face, battling to keep his temper in check. The man had likely never lifted a finger, save to summon a servant. “And if there is no work to be had?” he asked. “Or if a man has lost an arm or leg in fighting for his country and is no longer fit for able-bodied labor?”
Seeing Lumley’s blank stare, the duke quickly interceded. “That’s not the issue—”
“That’s precisely the issue,” retorted John. “By the by, how many returning veterans do you employ, Sommers?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” said the duke with a small sniff.
“Well, I can. As well as figures for some of our other lordly landholders.” Wrexham rattled off a list of numbers. “If you read some of The Beacon’s columns in the Morning Gazette, you will see some very articulate and intelligent arguments for passing this bill.”
“The Beacon ought to have his wick snuffed,” exclaimed Lumley. “He’s a dangerous radical. A rabblerouser. No responsible man should listen to such drivel.”
Sommers adopted a more conciliatory tone. “What we mean is that you, with your credentials as a distinguished military officer, will have a very influential voice in the upcoming debate, Wrexham. Your peers will listen to you and be swayed by your opinion.”
“Then I have even more of a duty to study the issue carefully and say the right thing.”
“Idealism is all very well in theory,” murmured Sommers. “But really, one has to be practical.”
“What you mean is, you wish for me to vote for preserving the privileges of the rich, no matter the cost to the rest of society.”
“You would rather be a traitor to your class?” demanded Lumley.
Fury welled up in his chest, and it was all John could do to keep from smashing a fist into the viscount’s wine-flushed nose. “Don’t speak to me of treason. I fought in the Peninsula, as did so many of those brave men whom you so casually denigrate. It is because of their sacrifices that Napoleon is not dining on Lobster Thermidor in Piccadilly Street.”
“Yet you defend radical republican philosophy—”
Davenport interrupted the heated exchange with a pained sigh. “Christ Almighty, must you three keep nattering on about abstract ideas? They give me a headache.”
“So do French brandy and Scottish whisky, yet you seem to embrace each with equal enthusiasm,” sneered Lumley.
Davenport finished off his champagne in one gulp. “That’s because drinking doesn’t take any mental effort.” Lifting the empty glass to the light, he added, “But then, you know that as well as I do.”
The marquess might be a sardonic sot, but at least he made no pretenses about who or what he was, thought John. And to his credit, he possessed a rather sharp wit.
“Arse,” replied Lumley, his nostrils flaring in anger. “Someday soon, someone is going to cut out that insolent tongue of yours and hand it to you on a platter.”
“Quite likely.” A quicksilver smile flickered in the shadows. “But it won’t be you.”
Sommers took
his friend by the arm and drew him back from the marquess. “I advise you to think carefully about what we have said, Wrexham. We, too, are not without influence. And I daresay ours is a good deal more powerful than yours.”
“Is that a threat, Your Grace?” asked John, matching the duke’s mild tone.
Sommers’s mouth curled up at the corners. “Merely a friendly word of warning.”
“You appear to be in danger of making some very unpleasant enemies,” observed Davenport as the other two men walked away.
“They are sadly mistaken if they think that I can be intimidated into going against what I believe is right.”
“A conscience is such a cursed nuisance,” drawled Davenport, flicking a mote of dust from his sleeve. “That’s why I don’t bother having one.”
“Go to the Devil,” growled John.
“Actually, I’m on my way to a delightful gaming hell and brothel named Satan’s Sanctuary. Care to join me?”
“Thank you, but no. I’ve been roasted over the coals enough for one evening.”
“Drat.” Olivia yanked out a snarled hairpin and dropped it on her dressing table. “Damn,” she added as several more flew free and bounced off the polished pearwood.
“Alice is a sweetheart, but she’s all thumbs when it comes to arranging hair,” commented Caro from the doorway. “Give me a corkscrew and a carving knife and I’d do a better job of it.”
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” replied Olivia rather crossly. The evening’s entertainment had left her in a black humor. “I—ouch!”
Caro hurried over and unknotted the offending ribbon. “Why are you in such a vile mood? Don’t tell me that Sir Sidney showed you another one of his sonnets to Anna?”
“Nothing so dire as that.” She grimaced in the looking glass. “I’m simply tired of being forced to smile and simper to a crowd of cabbageheads.”
“Ha!” Caro crinkled her nose. “I doubt that you could ‘simper’ if you tried.”
“Poetic license.” Olivia slipped on her wrapper and shook out her hair. “Honestly, it’s a colossal waste of time.”