“Knowing Jack, do you think that would have made any difference?”
“Probably not,” he was forced to concede. “But it will make a difference with me.”
“Will it?” She studied him for a moment, her head tilted a bit to one side. “What happened to your face?”
“My face?” The abrupt change of subject took him back a bit. But then he remembered Denys’s fist slamming into his cheek, and he laughed. “Oh, that. It’s nothing.”
“I’d hardly call a black eye nothing. Did you engage in a tavern brawl? Or a dispute over cards, perhaps?”
“Neither, actually,” he said with breezy disregard. “It was a fight over a woman, if you must know. A cancan dancer. I only mention her occupation,” he added as she gave a disapproving sniff, “in case you were wondering who she was.”
“I wasn’t, but I should advise you to invent a more tactful way of fielding any questions from ladies on the subject. A fight over a cancan dancer would hardly commend you as a possible husband.”
“It won’t matter if you keep introducing me to women as dim-witted as Carlotta Jackson. I doubt she even noticed my black eye, much less spared a moment to contemplate how I got it.”
Her lips curved up a bit at the corners. “That’s probably true, I admit. But as I said, you didn’t tell me you wanted an intelligent woman. And, my point—if we can return to it—is that even as you speak of how you would be more responsible than Jack, I am looking at evidence to the contrary on your own face. It’s hard to believe that a man is sincere about changing his life and being a better man when only a few days before he’d engaged in fisticuffs over a cancan dancer.”
“Belinda, the two are hardly the same thing!”
“No? I don’t see much difference.”
“Well, the business with the dancer actually happened three years ago, and the man who hit me the other day was Lord Somerton, one of my best friends.”
One of her black brows lifted in skepticism. “Your best friend struck you because of something that happened three years ago?”
Nicholas decided not to explain since his only defense was that at the time he’d spirited off Denys’s cancan dancer, he’d been in an advanced state of intoxication. That was not the sort of explanation likely to raise him in Belinda’s estimation, so it was best to keep mum.
“Never mind,” she said in the wake of his silence. “I don’t want to know anything about it. But I warn you that whomever you marry, you won’t be allowed to spend her money on cancan dancers, and you will be forced to spend a good portion of it on your estate.”
“If that’s what she wants, it’s quite all right with me,” he said agreeably. “Though any girl with sense won’t want us to live at Honeywood, I won’t cut up rough about improving the place.”
“Just so you understand it won’t be all beer and skittles for you just because you’re marrying a girl with money. I intend to tie your future wife’s dowry up as tightly as possible in the marriage settlement.”
“But you and I could negotiate the terms,” he murmured, and leaned over the table, giving her what he hoped was his most charming smile. “Couldn’t we?”
She didn’t seem impressed. “If you’ve got any absurd notions going on in your head that you can wheedle me into letting you off the hook, rid yourself of them at once. I intend to make sure you’ll be on a strict allowance.”
“I’ve no doubt of it, but that doesn’t stop me from having notions.” He slid his gaze down over what he could see of her luscious body. The tea table prevented him from seeing the rest, but his imagination was happy to complete the picture. Just that, just one moment of letting his imaginings about her take hold, and arousal began flowing through his body. “At least,” he added, as his gaze moved back up to her face, “not about you.”
She looked away, a hint of pink washing into her cheeks, and he felt a spark of hope that she wasn’t as indifferent to him as she might wish to pretend, but when she looked at him again, her expression was as cool as ever. “Are you, or are you not, trying to improve my opinion of you?”
“I am, but not if that means I can’t think delicious things about you. Perhaps it makes me a cad, Belinda, but I’m not willing to make that particular sacrifice.”
The color in her cheeks deepened, and she stirred in her chair. “Really, Trubridge,” she said, frowning with disapproval even as her fingers lifted to touch the side of her neck, “this sort of flirtation is quite inappropriate.”
Her attempt to chastise him was utterly ruined by the breathless quality of her voice, but he decided not to push his luck by pointing that out. It was satisfaction enough to know she felt at least a little of what he was feeling. “I know,” he answered her with a sigh of mock regret. “But I can’t help myself.”
“Try.” She snapped her handbag shut, shoved back her chair, and stood up. “Now that I know you want an intelligent girl, we can get on. Come to the National Gallery on Wednesday afternoon at two o’clock. The Dutch painters’ exhibit. There, I shall introduce you to Miss Geraldine Hunt, a girl who is as pretty as Carlotta Jackson and of far greater intelligence.”
“Oh, very well,” he said as he also rose to his feet, “but it’s a bit of a burn to my masculine pride that you can push me into the arms of other women without even a smidgen of regret.” He bowed and started to turn away, but her voice stopped him.
“Trubridge? You can’t leave yet.”
He turned, hopeful she was asking him to linger. “Why not? Do you want me to stay?”
“Just long enough to pay for tea.” She thrust a bill of fare into his hand and smiled. “Clients pay all expenses.”
She turned away, hooked her handbag over her arm, and started out of the tearoom.
“You really enjoyed yourself this afternoon, didn’t you?” he called after her, and her laughter rang out as she walked away, proving him right.
Forced to wait for the maître d’hôtel, he sat back down and contented himself with admiring Belinda’s shapely, bustled backside as she departed, and he couldn’t help imagining things that didn’t stand a chance of becoming reality.
IT WAS SILLY, Rosalie told herself, to be disappointed. After all, she barely knew the Marquess of Trubridge. They’d had two conversations and one dance, and yet, she feared she was already falling in love with him because the sight of him sitting with Carlotta Jackson tore at her heart and made her want to cry. When she’d seen him walk by, her heart had given a leap of joy, only to sink again in dismay at the sight of him stopping by Auntie Belinda’s table.
She’d watched in disbelief from her own seat on the other side of Claridge’s tearooms as Belinda had introduced Trubridge to Carlotta and Mrs. Jackson, and it had been almost more than she could bear. She hadn’t known Belinda and Carlotta even knew each other, much less that they were on intimate enough terms to have tea together. Not that she expected to know Auntie Belinda’s plans every moment of the day or that she was in any way bothered by which other girls Auntie Belinda might be sponsoring, but still . . . Carlotta Jackson? That girl was denser than packed sand.
What made Carlotta better suited to have tea with Lord Trubridge than she was? Rosalie wondered, resentful and baffled. And why was Belinda having tea with him and introducing him to other girls if he was the scoundrel she’d claimed him to be? And why had she lied about his appearance? The more she thought about it, the more confused, and hurt, and downright mad she became.
But after the others had gone, when she saw him sitting alone, she couldn’t help harboring a tiny speck of hope. He had to come back toward this side of the tearoom in order to leave it, and though her table was stuck back in a corner, maybe he would see her.
She watched him sign his bill with the waiter and stand up. Her heart began to pound hard in her chest. Maybe, she thought as he started in her direction, if he saw her as he passed, he would stop to talk
with her. And maybe she could invite him to sit with them. She bit her lip, waiting.
He walked right by without even glancing in her direction, and Rosalie’s momentary hope came crashing down.
“Don’t you think so, Miss Harlow?”
Sir William’s voice interrupted this wretched state of mind, and she tore her eyes from the marquess’s splendid back and shoulders. She returned her attention to the brown-haired young man on the other side of the tea table, striving to conceal the disappointment she felt.
“Of course, Sir William,” she answered although she didn’t know what on earth she was agreeing with since she hadn’t paid a bit of attention to the conversation. She forced herself to smile, vowed to pay more attention to her companions, and tried very hard not to wish that Lord Trubridge was sitting across from her instead of Sir William Bevelstoke.
Chapter 8
Miss Geraldine Hunt proved to be every bit as pretty and intelligent as Belinda had claimed. Alas, she was also dull as paint, a fact Belinda had somehow failed to mention.
She was one of those earnest girls who read Marx and Dostoyevsky, and Nicholas suspected that he fell at once in her estimation by confessing that nowadays he only read novels. “Oxford,” he explained, straight-faced, “cured me of serious reading.”
In consequence, he was given a stern lecture on his derivative reading habits.
When she asked him about the state of the world, his comment that as far as he knew it was still turning did not elicit so much as a smile, and he was treated to a dissertation on the inevitable disastrous future that awaited them all.
As they moved through the exhibit, she probed him for opinions on the significance of the paintings, and after an hour of trying to offer a deeper significance for every portrait, landscape, or vase of flowers, Nicholas couldn’t help just stating the obvious.
“I don’t suppose,” he offered, as they stood in front of an image of a country house with lawn and trees, “this could just be the artist’s home, and he painted it because he liked living there?”
“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “No great artist would paint a picture for such mundane reasons.”
“Quite,” Nicholas agreed. Having decidedly been put in his place, he moved on to the next picture, and though he strove to find some hidden deeper meaning, a still life of flowers in a glass vase didn’t give him much to go on. “The tulips aren’t a surprise, I suppose, since it’s a Dutch exhibit. But there are roses, too. How . . . umm . . . extraordinary.” He peered closer and grasped at the only thing he could think of. “The petals of the roses are falling off. Symbolism in that, do you think?”
“Oh, rose,” she murmured in answer, staring at the picture, “thou art sick.”
Surprised by the sudden thrust of Blake into the conversation, he looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
She turned toward him. “The sick rose,” she prompted, but when he continued to stare at her, she gave a heavy sigh that implied he was the most hopeless pudding head alive and proceeded to explain, “The poem by William Blake, from Songs of Innocence and Experience. Do you know it?”
Oh, God. She wanted to talk about poetry. It wasn’t that he disliked poetry. Quite the contrary. But academic discussions on the topic bored him to death. Remembrances of school went through his mind, where he’d listened to dry-as-dust lectures on quatrains and iambic tetrameter and the most ridiculous interpretations of Shakespearean sonnets. He suspected a lecture on Blake by Miss Hunt would be far worse than those of the dons at Oxford, and desperate, he tried to veer her off the topic. “Sorry, no,” he lied. “I’ve never read Blake.”
“ ‘Oh, rose, thou art sick,’ ” she repeated, her voice rising to an oratory level. “ ‘The invisible worm that flies in the night, in the howling storm, has found out thy bed of crimson joy.’ ”
A choked sound came from somewhere nearby, and he glanced sideways to find Belinda a few feet away. He glared daggers at her, but that did him no good since she wasn’t looking at him. She was pretending vast interest in a Vermeer, one gloved hand pressed over her mouth.
Miss Hunt stirred, moving closer to him, and he was forced to return his attention to her. He watched in some alarm as her eyes widened with lurid excitement, and speculations as to her sanity began running through his head. “ ‘And his dark, secret love,’ ” she hissed, “ ‘does thy life destroy.’ ”
She stopped, waiting, as if he were expected to now impart an opinion, whether on the poem or her recitation of it he wasn’t sure. “Lovely, quite lovely,” he said with an emphasis he hoped was convincing enough not to hurt her feelings, and he moved on to the Vermeer. “I quite like this picture, Miss Hunt. Don’t you?”
Before the girl could reach his side to study the painting, he leaned closer to Belinda and muttered, “I am going to wring your neck.”
AS TRUBRIDGE WALKED with Miss Hunt through the elegant rooms of the National Gallery, Belinda followed at the discreet distance appropriate to a chaperone, delighted with how this afternoon was living up to all her expectations.
Ever since last Friday, she’d been savoring that episode at Claridge’s. Every time she’d thought of Carlotta’s unceasing, self-absorbed chatter and Trubridge’s dazed expression, she’d laughed all over again. Today, she was happy to know that her second attempt to present the marquess with an heiress who met his stated requirements was proving just as enjoyable as the first.
Unfortunately, her entertainment was not destined to last long. To his credit, Trubridge did his best to respond to Geraldine’s pretentious topics of conversation and her outbursts of poetry, but after ninety minutes, his patience ran out, conversation between the pair lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, and Belinda knew it was time to bring this meeting to an end.
“What an enjoyable afternoon this has been,” she said, breaking the silence. “But I fear Miss Hunt and I must be going. You’re ready to depart, Geraldine, are you not?”
The girl gave a toss of her head. “Quite ready,” she said with an emphasis that made it clear she was as unimpressed with Trubridge as he with her, and as they made their way out of the building, she recited no more poetry, a fact for which Trubridge was no doubt grateful.
“I didn’t bring my carriage,” Belinda told him, and when he’d managed to wave down a hansom for them, she started to follow Geraldine immediately into the vehicle, but of course, he was not about to let her escape that easily.
“A moment, Lady Featherstone, if you please,” he said, catching her by the arm. “You don’t mind, do you, Miss Hunt?”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned away, pulling Belinda with him until they were out of earshot before he stopped, then he turned to face her. “Having fun?” he asked, and though he was smiling, she wasn’t certain if it was for Geraldine’s benefit or if he was genuinely amused by her little joke.
“Yes,” she answered, giving him a wide smile in return. “I confess I am.”
“Enjoy it now, because if you keep wasting my time this way, I will be forced to reconsider Rosalie Harlow.”
She sobered at once. “We had an agreement.”
“One which will be void if you don’t start living up to it.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I am living up to it, given the vague preferences you imparted to me.”
He stirred, leaning closer. “Then it’s clear I must explain my requirements in more detail.”
Given that she had asked for those details, she could hardly protest. “That would be helpful, of course,” she said with dignity.
“Good. I shall pay a call on you in an hour, and we will discuss the matter more fully.”
“One hour? That’s not possible, Trubridge. I have an engagement with the Duchess of Margrave.”
“I don’t care if you have an appointment with the Queen. I shall see you in one hour.”
“But I told you, I do
n’t have time today—”
“Very well.” He gave a shrug and put on his hat. “I’m sure Miss Harlow will be happy to make time for me since you are unable to do so.”
“All right, all right, we’ll meet in an hour. But I hope you are prepared to be more clear about your requirements now?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be clear as glass.” With that, he turned toward the hansom and tipped his hat to Geraldine, then walked away down the street without a backward glance. Belinda watched him go, rather let down at having her fun cut off so soon, but she hoped she had succeeded in making her point. Finding a spouse was serious business, requiring considerable thought, attention, and effort. If he was going to marry money, by heaven, she intended to make sure he earned it first.
She returned to the cab, requested the driver to take them to Geraldine’s hotel, and stepped inside the vehicle. “What did you think of Lord Trubridge?” she asked as she settled herself opposite the girl.
“He’s very good-looking,” Geraldine said, making handsomeness sound rather like a disease. “But appearance is meaningless. The inner person,” she added, pressing a hand to her heart, “is what matters.”
“I see,” Belinda murmured, wishing the marquess was able to overhear this conversation. “And you did not find Lord Trubridge’s . . . umm . . . inner person satisfactory?”
“I did not! He isn’t serious, Lady Featherstone. He cares nothing for the things that matter. I tried to discuss the news of the day with him, and the state of the world, and all he did was make flippant remarks. The only books he reads are novels, and even there, he seemed not to care in the least about discussing current literary themes and allusions. And,” she added with an injured sniff, “it’s obvious he has no appreciation of poetry!”
“It seems not,” Belinda agreed, keeping her voice appropriately grave. She leaned forward and patted the girl’s gloved hand with her own in an encouraging fashion. “We shall have to keep looking, my dear.”
American Heiress [1]When The Marquess Met His Match Page 10