“It’s not surprising that you know her, however,” the duke went on, “You are acquainted with all manner of people.”
The way he said it, Lady Featherstone might have been a convicted criminal. “I didn’t,” he answered. “But one’s always apt to make new acquaintances during the course of the season, particularly Americans. Lady Featherstone has so many American friends, and they all seem to have heaps of money. I really can’t understand why you dislike Americans, Father. The girls are so pretty and so charming. I’ve met quite a few already, thanks to Lady Featherstone.”
Landsdowne’s lip curled with distaste. “Sunk that low, have you?” he muttered. “Hiring someone to find you a wife? Trading on your title for money? You must be desperate.”
“On the contrary, I think hiring a matchmaker is a practical and efficient course. You taught me well, Papa. One can have anything one wants if one is willing to pay for it. I’m willing to pay with my title.” He clicked his teeth and gave his father a wink. “I’ve finally found a good use for it.”
Landsdowne pressed his lips together, bowed, and turned away, leaving Nicholas laughing after him as he walked out of the bar.
“He’s in high dungeon now, Nick,” Denys murmured. “You really shouldn’t antagonize him, you know.”
“You’re right, of course.” Spying a waiter, Nicholas gestured for the fellow to bring him a drink. “But whenever I see Landsdowne, I just can’t help myself.”
“It always gets you into trouble.”
“That’s why I spend most of my time on a different continent, old chap.” He gestured to an empty table. “Shall we sit down?”
“You didn’t tell me you’d brought in Lady Featherstone to assist you,” Denys said, and laughed as they took seats. “You devil. Now I understand why you’re going after Rosalie Harlow and you weren’t worried about the dragon at the gates. You managed to get the dragon on your side.”
“I’ve veered off Miss Harlow, for I don’t think we’d suit. But yes, Lady Featherstone is assisting me.”
As he spoke, he realized Belinda’s letter was still in his hand. Resisting the impulse to inhale the scent of her that clung to the paper, he shoved the letter into the breast pocket of his jacket. This conversation with his father was a forcible reminder of the course he’d chosen and why he’d chosen it, and that he couldn’t afford to be diverted from it by one luscious, unobtainable woman.
“I wonder, Nick . . .” Denys’s musing voice intruded on his thoughts. “Was it wise to tip your hand to your father about your plans? He’ll use the knowledge against you somehow.”
“I don’t see how he can.” Nicholas leaned back as the waiter placed a tumbler of whiskey in front of him. “It’s already public knowledge that I need a wife for financial reasons, and he’d have learned about Lady Featherstone eventually anyway.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Besides,” Nicholas added as he picked up his glass, “there isn’t a thing he can do to me that he hasn’t already done or tried to do at some point in my life.” He downed the whiskey in one swallow and grimaced, relishing the burn. “Trust me on that.”
DURING THE NEXT few days, Belinda made no effort to introduce him to prospective brides, and to Nicholas’s way of thinking, that was just as well. The more time that passed before he saw her again, he felt, the more he would be able to put his priorities back in order.
Not that it was easy. Although his encounter with his father served to renew his determination, it did not lessen his desire for Belinda. In addition, the various distractions a man might employ to forget about a particular woman were unavailable to him.
He was in the process of salvaging his shredded reputation, and he could not risk anyone respectable seeing him doing anything that might tarnish the image of a man sincerely looking to marry, so bawdy houses were out of the question. Nor was Mignonette a possibility, for though she was discreet, a Parisian mistress was a luxury he could no longer afford, and they had mutually agreed to end their liaison upon his departure for England. He’d never found streetwalkers appealing in any circumstances. All of which made the distraction of another woman unfeasible.
And even if he had access to the physical relief another woman might provide, it wouldn’t have mattered, for he didn’t want any other woman. Perverse fellow that he was, he wanted Belinda, a woman he not only could not afford but whose opinion of him could not be considered by even the most self-deceptive fellow to be much above an ant’s knees.
During the six days that followed, he attended race meetings, called on old friends, played staid rounds of whist at White’s, and tried his best to forget about her and about that kiss. By the time he arrived at Victoria Station on Friday, he felt he was reasonably back in control of his mind, his heart, and his body.
And then he saw her standing on the platform, and he knew he’d spent the past week fooling himself. When she turned at the sound of his calling her name, he felt the world tilt a little sideways, and he knew that even if a decade passed before he saw her again, he would still remember every detail of her face—the exact blue of her eyes and the luminous glow of her skin and the delicate arch of her brow. Worse, he suspected he’d still feel the same sensations a decade from now—a dry throat, a pounding heart, and an inability to say a single word. And when he found himself alone with her in a first-class compartment, it didn’t take long for his imagination to set to work and put him right back in the suds, and he feared that if things kept on this way, by the end of the house party, he’d be well and truly mad.
Desperate, he cleared his throat. “It seems we shall have fine weather for the journey.”
Before he’d even finished the sentence, he was grimacing at his own inanity. The weather? Really? That was the best he could do?
“Yes,” she agreed, turned her head, and looked out the window. She said nothing more.
In the silence, he tried to think of what to say next as he studied her profile. She wore a traveling hat of cream-colored straw topped by a massive quantity of ostrich plumes in various shades of blue, with a brim that curled down on one side of her head and up on the other. The upside faced him as she stared through the glass, and the light washed over the pale, translucent skin of her cheek, her impudent nose, and the finely cut lines of her chin and jaw. He could read nothing in her profile of what she might be thinking or feeling; indeed, she seemed precisely the same as the woman he’d first met—cool, polished, and wholly indifferent to him. Yet he knew how much fire lay beneath her smooth surface.
It was probably best not to think about that.
He took a deep breath and tried again. “It seems a bit stuffy in here. Since it’s so fine today, and we’re now outside the city, perhaps I should open the window a bit? Bring in some fresh air?”
“If you like.” She leaned back as he rose to slide down the window sash, but she didn’t look at him. Instead, she continued to gaze outside.
It was clear he needed a topic that would require more from her than these brief, uncommunicative replies, but he was rather at a loss. He’d never been so ill at ease around a woman, but knocking him off his trolley seemed to be Belinda’s special gift. Women often found his lighthearted wit and offhand charm quite likeable, but those particular talents never seemed to cut any ice with Belinda. She seldom laughed at his jokes, and she didn’t usually find him either witty or charming. And, most aggravating of all, he’d had the idiocy to admit to her that using humor was his favorite way of hiding his weaknesses.
“Tell me about our hostess,” he said at last, settling back against his seat. “What’s Margrave’s duchess like?”
“Edie?” She looked at him, pulled away at last from her seeming fascination with the view. “That reminds me of something I wanted to ask you. How did you know she and Margrave had made a marriage solely based on material considerations? I didn’t even know that fact until
very recently, and I helped bring them together.”
“Margrave is a friend of mine. We were at school together. He’s usually off in Africa somewhere, but he does come to the Continent occasionally, and whenever he is in Paris, he looks me up.”
“I see. And was it Margrave’s marriage that led you to decide on the same course?”
“Not really, no. I knew Margrave and his wife had agreed to marry for material considerations. But at that time, the thought of marrying anyone myself never even entered my head. In fact, I was determined not to marry at all.”
“Until your father cut you off?”
“Yes.” He met her cool gaze with a hint of defiance. “Just so.”
“And you require a wife with a dowry because his decision is irrevocable? Could he not be persuaded to relent once you are married?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been told he is quite willing to do so, but only if certain requirements are met, and I have no intention of meeting those requirements.”
“And what are these requirements?”
“Given our conversations regarding my preferences, can’t you guess? Allow me to offer a hint,” he added before she could answer. “Landsdowne loves imposing his will on all and sundry, moving people about like chess pieces on a board. I, being a contrary sort of fellow, don’t care to oblige him by being one of those chess pieces.”
She frowned, thinking it out. “So you are choosing to marry, but you intend to deliberately choose the sort of woman he would disapprove of. A Roman Catholic girl, for example, or an American. And she has to be rich, because if she’s the sort he won’t approve, he won’t reinstate your income.”
That wasn’t the entire reason, of course, but he thought of Kathleen and decided it was best to leave it at that. “Yes.”
She tilted her head, studying him thoughtfully. “Do you do everything in life in opposition to what your father wants?”
“As often as I can. You find that appalling, I daresay.”
“No,” she said quietly. “I find it sad.”
There was a hint of compassion in her eyes, and he didn’t like it. It hurt, deep down, in places he didn’t want anyone to know about. “Sad?” he echoed, and gave her his most provoking smile. “On the contrary, aggravating Landsdowne provides me with a great deal of entertainment.”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” she agreed, not seeming the least bit surprised.
He wriggled on his seat. “Damn it, Belinda,” he said in aggravation, “what is it about you that always makes me feel like a bug on a pin?”
She smiled a little at that. “Why don’t you like talking about yourself?”
“That’s the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” he countered, glad for the opportunity to divert the conversation. “I’d wager many people wonder what’s underneath your exterior. I know I do.”
She looked away, staring down at her lap. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“No? Allow me to explain.” He slid onto his knees in front of her, ignoring the way she stirred in her seat. “You are so cool, one would think butter couldn’t melt in your mouth. But . . .”
He paused, placing his hands on either side of her hips, resting them on the roll and tuck leather. “But that’s a front, isn’t it?”
He leaned forward, his abdomen brushing her knees, and the contact started the slow burn of desire inside him. He was heading into dangerous territory, he knew, but just now, he didn’t much care. “I don’t know much about you, Belinda Featherstone,” he murmured, “but I do know one thing. I know that underneath that prim, cool exterior of yours, you are hotter than hellfire.”
One of her black brows rose in a gesture he guessed was supposed to intimidate him. “I believe any woman, prim or not, hot or not, would consider your proximity at this moment as an advance upon her person, which means you are breaking the promise you made to me less than a week ago. Do you break all your promises to women so easily?”
That defeated him, and they both knew it. He sat back, cursing himself for ever making such a ridiculous promise, and he could only watch as she reached into her morocco traveling case and pulled out a book, opened it on her lap, and began to read. Conversation, clearly, was no longer an option, and he was right back where he’d started upon boarding the train—with the delectable Belinda right across from him and not a distraction to be found.
Not having not had the foresight to bring a book, he gazed out the window, but even the prettiest English countryside was no match for the view opposite him, and it wasn’t more than five minutes before he was giving in to the inevitable.
He started at her high, cameo-pinned collar, and as he began working his way down, it occurred to him that it was a fortunate thing her navy-and-cream traveling gown was so elaborate. With its countless ruffles and flounces, its dozens of buttons and ribbons, and undergarments that were no doubt equally complicated, he was hopeful that undoing the whole ensemble in his imagination would take longer than their train ride. Because if she was naked before they reached Norfolk, and he had to sit here with that sort of view in his head, blocked from touching her by his idiotic promise, he would have to walk to the back of the moving train and hurl himself onto the tracks.
Chapter 11
He was still watching her. Belinda didn’t look up from her book, but she didn’t have to, for she could feel his gaze on her like the blazing sun. Her knees still burned where they’d been pressed against his body, and his words seemed like a brand on her brain.
Under that prim, cool exterior, you are hotter than hellfire.
She was now, and it was all his fault.
Belinda tried to concentrate on her book, but that proved an impossible task with him watching her. He knew it, too, the wretched man.
“You know, if you’re pretending to read,” he murmured, “you probably ought to turn a page every once in a while. It’s more convincing that way.”
She looked at him over the top of her book and found that he was lounging back in his seat in an indolent pose, one shoulder propped against the window, a slight smile curving his mouth.
She frowned. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you staring is rude?”
“I know, but I can’t help myself. I’d rather look at you than the view outside. Much prettier.”
“Such lavish compliments,” she said as she turned a page. “But they’re wasted on me.”
“Don’t I know it?” he said with a rueful look. “Still, that doesn’t make them any less true.”
She sniffed. “I daresay you’d deem any young woman preferable to a view out a window.”
“Well, yes,” he acknowledged, his smile widening. “I am a man, after all. Besides,” he added, straightening in his seat with a glance at the window, “Cambridgeshire isn’t precisely my favorite part of England. Bad memories.”
“Oh?” Intrigued, she lowered her book to her lap. “How so?”
His smile faded, and he was silent so long, she thought he wasn’t going to answer her question. “Does it matter?” he asked after a moment.
Belinda studied his profile, the sudden rigidity in his shoulders, the press of his lips. “Yes,” she said softly. “I think it does.”
“I can’t imagine why it should. The past never matters.” He fell silent, and he seemed to find the view through the window much more fascinating now than he had before.
He was not a man who cared to talk about himself, and this was a rare opportunity to learn more about him. She had no intention of letting it pass. “You may not think it matters, but it does. I realize you hate answering questions of a personal nature, but you shall have to overcome your reluctance. Any woman who would consider marrying you will want to know more about you.”
“You’re right, of course,” he said with a sigh, and turned to face her. “As a boy, I’d hoped to go to Cambridge, for I’d always been fascinated by chemis
try and science. I was forever asking questions, pestering anyone and everyone who had any scientific knowledge—my tutor, the brewing master at Honeywood, the local doctor, the owner of the chemist’s shop. I collected butterflies, bugs, and tadpoles. I even—” He broke off and smiled at a past memory. “I even set up a laboratory at Honeywood once. I had to smuggle in the apparatus, and Mr. Hathaway and I had to keep it a secret, of course, but we did some smashing experiments.” He paused, his smile fading. “For a while.”
Belinda frowned. “But I don’t understand. Why should you have had to smuggle in equipment and keep it a secret?”
He shot her a rueful look. “If you knew my father, you wouldn’t even have to ask that. Anyway,” he went on before she could probe further, “some of my experiments were very successful, particularly those I did on the use of chloride of lime for hygienic purposes. When I was at Eton, I wrote a paper proposing the addition of chloride of lime to public water supplies to curtail the spread of typhoid, and my professor sent it on to Cambridge with a recommendation of my abilities. I was invited to submit my application and come to be interviewed. I did, and I was accepted.”
Belinda frowned in puzzlement, thinking of the comment he’d made to Geraldine that day in the National Gallery. “But I don’t understand. Didn’t you attend Oxford?”
“Of course.” He smiled again, but this time, the smile did not reach his eyes. “All Landsdowne men go to Oxford.”
“But if you wanted to study the sciences, surely Cambridge would have been better. And if you were accepted, then why didn’t you go?”
“A Landsdowne go to Cambridge?” The lightness of his voice could not quite conceal the pain beneath it. “That would be absurd, Belinda. No Landsdowne has ever attended Cambridge.” He swallowed and looked away. “I was reminded of that axiom when my father forwarded the retraction of their acceptance on to me. They’d sent it to him . . . by mistake, he said.”
Belinda pressed her fingertips to her lips, feeling slightly sick. “He forced them to withdraw their acceptance.”
American Heiress [1]When The Marquess Met His Match Page 14