“But why?”
Suzette stared as if the very question was mad. “Because it is Paris.”
“Even so, he is English,” India persisted. After all, why would a subject of Her Majesty’s choose to live anywhere but England? “It makes no sense to me.”
“And it makes no sense to a Parisian to live anywhere but Paris.”
“But he’s English.”
“I would suggest you ask his lordship why he chooses to live where he does,” Suzette said firmly. “I do not gossip about my employer.”
“Of course not. I never thought—I am sorry.”
Suzette waved off the apology as if India’s comments were already forgotten. “I am to assist you during your stay. Please call for me at any time. Is there anything else you need at the moment?”
“Yes, actually, I was wondering...” India held her arms out. Her sleeves dripped with delicate lace, an extravagant lace-trimmed ruffle plunged down the center of her chest, far lower than any nightgown she’d ever even imagined wearing. “Whose gown is this?”
As their luggage had not arrived with them last night, she had been provided with borrowed nightclothes. She’d paid no attention; she’d practically fallen into bed and was asleep in minutes. The gown was as decadent as the bed. Pale peach in color—to complement the room no doubt—silky against her skin, with no weight to the fabric at all, and far sheerer than anything any respectable woman would ever wear, even in the privacy of the bedroom. She could see more than the mere shadow of her arm in the sleeve and was afraid to get out from under the protection of the covers for fear of what she might reveal. “The marquess’s wife perhaps?”
Suzette scoffed as if India had just said something absurd. “The marquess is not married.”
“Then whose gown is this?”
“I am not entirely certain, mademoiselle.” Suzette frowned thoughtfully. “Probably a mistress but I do not know which one.”
India stared in shock. “He has more than one?”
“Oh no, not at the same time,” Suzette said matter-of-factly. “That would be...difficult.”
India snorted. “One would think.” She did need to get out of bed. “Has my luggage arrived?”
Suzette shrugged. “I have not seen it, mademoiselle.”
“I’m sure it’s here somewhere.” India sighed. “Very well then, until it’s located, I shall have to make do with what I was wearing yesterday.”
“Yes, of course, mademoiselle.” Suzette nodded. “Your clothes are being brushed and pressed. I shall bring them as soon as they are ready.”
“I do appreciate that, but what am I to wear until then?” India certainly couldn’t leave her room dressed like a tart.
“Ah!” Suzette brightened and stepped to the chaise near the foot of the bed. She picked up a garment matching the gown India wore and displayed it with pride. “There is as well a dressing gown to match the negligee.”
It was no more substantial than what she had on, but hopefully adding another layer would help. Regardless, she had no intention of leaving her room until she was properly attired.
“I see you’re awake,” a male voice sounded from the hall. “You slept much later than I expected. I rather thought you’d be an early riser.” A tall, dashing gentleman with hair colored a rich walnut and an infectious grin strode into the room. He looked to be about the same age as Derek and had the same lighthearted nature. “Forgive my impatience, but I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
India yanked the covers up to her chin. “Have you?”
He chuckled. “Derek has told me a great deal about you.”
“Has he?” Shock at this intrusion was apparently robbing her of all ability to speak in words more than one syllable long. But then she’d never had a handsome devil invade her bedroom before. A certain amount of stunned paralysis was probably to be expected.
“Oh my, yes.” His gaze raked over her in an admiring manner. “But apparently he left out some important facts.”
Heat washed up her face. Why, the man was flirting with her! How terribly forward. She clutched the covers tighter. “I beg your pardon, but I can’t imagine, even in Paris, one invades a lady’s bedchamber without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“The door was open.” He shook his head in a chastising manner. “I don’t think you can really call it an invasion if the door is open. An open door is more like, oh, an invitation.”
“I did not invite you!”
“And yet.” He grinned in a manner that was at once boyishly endearing and completely wicked. “Here I am. Allow me to introduce myself. I am your host, Percival St. James, Marquess of Brookings.” He swept an exaggerated bow. “And I am at your service.”
“Very nice to meet you, my lord,” she said without thinking, then tightened her grip on the covers with one hand and waved her free hand at the door. “And if you are truly at my service, you will take your leave at once.”
“I am truly at your service,” he said staunchly, although she suspected her definition of “at your service” and his were decidedly different. “And my friends call me Percy or Val, one of which I prefer to the other, but it makes no difference as anything is better than Percival. Don’t you agree?”
She stared, not entirely sure what to say. “I suppose.”
“As I am certain we are going to be friends, which would you prefer to call me, Miss Prendergast?”
“I do not share your certainty, and I will call you Lord Brookings,” she said firmly. “Anything else would be most inappropriate.”
“Precisely the point.” He grinned and glanced at the maid. “Suzette, if you would be so good as to see if Miss Prendergast’s clothes are ready.”
“Yes, my lord.” She bobbed a curtsy, aimed India a quick glance of encouragement and took her leave.
“And leave the door open if you will,” India called after her.
“Come now, India—”
“Miss Prendergast.”
“You are perfectly safe in my presence. In spite of what you may have heard, I have never ravaged a woman who did not wish to be ravaged. And with great enthusiasm I might add.”
“Given that I am in bed wearing the clothes of one of your mistresses, that is good to know.” India paused. “And I haven’t heard anything.”
He stared at her. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Nothing at all?” He frowned. “My reputation has not preceded me?”
“I’d never so much as heard your name until a few minutes ago.”
“That’s rather distressing.”
She stared in disbelief. “Why?”
“It does one no good to have a certain reputation if no one knows about it. Are you sure you’ve never heard of me?” he added hopefully.
Good Lord, the silly man was actually bothered that she’d never heard of his no doubt sordid reputation. She felt the tiniest bit sorry for him and dismissed the feeling at once. What on earth was she thinking? “Perhaps I have never heard of you because I am not active in society.”
“Oh, well then.” His expression brightened. “That makes perfect sense.” He stepped closer and perched on the side of the bed.
She slid to the center of the mattress, nearly upending the tray in the process. “You’re sitting on my bed!”
“Indeed I am.” He glanced around and patted the bed beside him. “I hope you found it to your liking.”
“Yes, yes, it was quite comfortable. Now if you would be so good as to remove yourself from my bed, I would be most appreciative.”
“But this is convenient as well as comfortable.” He pinned her with a firm look. “You didn’t expect me to keep talking to you from the other side of the room.”
“You were closer to the foot of the bed than the other
side of the room.”
“And now I am closer still.” He grinned. Again. This was completely absurd. There was a man—a stranger—sitting on her bed! And as much as she tried to maintain her indignation, he was rather disarming. Which was every bit as annoying as the man himself. “I can tell you all sorts of stories.”
“I don’t care!”
He ignored her. “Some of them are even true, but most are simply the stuff of gossip. As you haven’t heard any of the stories about me it compels me, as your host and a man with an unsavory reputation—”
“Well earned I suspect.” She glared at him.
“I would say the tales of my misadventures are somewhere between well earned and a complete exaggeration.” He paused. “Perhaps not a complete exaggeration.”
She raised a brow.
“Possibly embellished more than exaggerated, although one or two might be fairly accurate.” He waggled his brows at her in a most disconcerting way. If she wasn’t so irritated, she might have laughed. “I would imagine it all depends on who is telling the story. You know how these things are.”
“I don’t know how these things are nor do I wish to. Now.” She aimed a pointed finger at the door. “If you would be so good as to get out of my room, my lord, I—”
“Percy. Or Val. Your choice.” He reached over and selected a piece of her pastry.
“Lord Brookings,” she forced a hard note to her voice, “if you don’t leave at once, I shall...I shall scream. That’s what I’ll do, I’ll scream. And quite loudly.”
“Because you fear for your virtue?” He considered her curiously and took a bite of the pastry.
“Not as much as I fear for my croissants!”
“I doubt that you have ever in your entire life screamed, quite loudly or otherwise,” he said mildly. “Unless of course it was at the unexpected appearance of a rat, but certainly not out of fear or rage or frustration. You don’t strike me as that type of woman.”
For a moment she considered lying, but what was the point? “I have never felt the need before as I usually have my emotions well in hand.”
“But not today.” He smirked, and she had the immediate impulse to smack his face.
“On the contrary, my lord, I am in complete control of my emotions as well as being both rational and logical.” She summoned a measure of calm. “As you will not depart willingly, it seems to me, if I were to scream as loudly as possible, you would then do exactly as I ask and leave my room.”
“You expect me to scamper away like a frightened bunny?” He tossed the rest of the croissant in his mouth.
“I’m not sure I would have used the term frightened bunny but...” She met his gaze firmly. “Yes, I do. Regardless of whatever reputation you claim to have, no man in his right mind wishes to have a woman’s scream echoing through his home. It tends to frighten servants, who will then seek other positions. And I imagine finding good servants in Paris is every bit as difficult as it is in London.”
“You have no idea,” he murmured and reached for another pastry.
“I would further suspect, even in Paris, neighbors who hear a woman’s scream—” she nodded at the open window “—might well be inclined to summon the police. Particularly if they lived next door to a foreign scoundrel with a scandalous reputation.”
He stared at her for a moment, then laughed. “Touché, India—”
“Miss Prendergast.”
“Derek calls you India.”
She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Mr. Saunders and I will be spending a great deal of time together, accompanied by Professor and Mrs. Greer. In the interest of expediency, it was decided we would call one another by our given names. There is absolutely no reason why you and I should be so personal.”
“Except that I am your gracious host.”
“And while you do have my gratitude, I am still not inclined to call you Percival, Percy, Val or anything other than Lord Brookings.”
“I see.” He took a bite of her croissant and chewed thoughtfully, studying her the entire time.
She picked up a raspberry and tossed it in her mouth. If the man was trying to make her uncomfortable, he was failing. Admittedly, she might have been a bit nonplussed when he had first appeared in her room. Who wouldn’t be given she was in a strange bed dressed like a harlot? Perhaps their absurd sparring was to blame, or possibly the chocolate, but she had regained her normal disposition. She had no intention of letting this arrogant, presumptuous relation of Derek’s get the better of her. Why, it would be almost as bad as if Derek was doing it himself.
“I shall make a bargain with you, India,” he said at last.
“Miss Prendergast.” She smiled pleasantly.
“Believe it or not, it is remarkably difficult to scream.”
“I can’t imagine that.”
“But you have never before screamed. One must let go of all one’s reservations. Put one’s heart and soul into it, if you will. I doubt that a woman like you can do it.”
“What exactly do you mean?” She drew her brows together. “A woman like me?”
“Derek says you’re cool and collected. Not the least bit emotional.” He lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “Even somewhat cold.”
“Does he?” India wasn’t sure why something she’d always prided herself on now bothered her just the tiniest bit.
“He does.” Lord Brookings nodded, a challenge in his eye.
She met his gaze directly. “Good.”
He laughed. “I shall make you a wager, India.”
“Miss Prendergast. And I never wager.”
“You see, I don’t believe you can overcome your reserve, your unyielding conviction as to what is proper and what is not. Therefore, if you can toss your inhibitions aside and truly release a bloodcurdling yell, I shall, from then on, quite properly call you Miss Prendergast.”
“Good Lord.” For a moment, she could have sworn she was governess again. “How old are you?”
He grinned.
“And are you really a marquess?”
“I am.”
“And that is an English title? Not some frivolous foreign designation?”
“I am the eighth Marquess of Brookings. My father was the seventh, my grandfather the sixth and so on. I have the papers to prove it if you wish to see them.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“So what’s it to be, India? Although I must say I like the sound of India and Percy. It fairly reeks of England, and yet I think it has a certain flair to it.” He reached for her last croissant. “Although, perhaps India and Val are even more—”
Before she could think better of it, India opened her mouth and screamed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A WOMAN’S SCREAM ripped through the house, reverberating off lofty ceilings and echoing off marbled floors. Derek started, frozen in midstep on the stairs, and knew with unerring certainty whose scream it was. Bloody hell.
He sprinted toward India’s room, just down the hall from his, taking the steps of the broad, curving stairway two at a time. He and Val had talked for long hours after their arrival last night, and Derek knew there were no other guests staying at the grand house. He had left the professor and his wife downstairs in the breakfast room, probably too far away to hear, although he wouldn’t be at all surprised to find them right behind him. No one could miss that scream.
What was wrong now? India had made a noticeable attempt yesterday not to be overly critical of very nearly everything but she did not take well to the inconveniences of travel. It was obvious she’d had little travel experience except perhaps for the occasional trip from London to the country.
He reached the second floor and headed toward her room. India was in no real danger. He was confident of that. Although one never
knew what—or who—one might run into in the halls of Val’s Parisian domicile. The last time Derek was here, there had been a precocious monkey—the adored pet of Val’s paramour at the time—that had been clever enough to escape his leash and evade capture for nearly a month, living off scraps in the kitchen and terrifying both servants and guests alike. For a small creature, he had been extremely unpleasant and rather threatening. Val broke it off with his owner the moment the beast was captured. Derek suspected the animal was no more than a convenient excuse.
Derek reached India’s room and pulled up short. Even a monkey wouldn’t have been a greater shock than the sight that greeted him.
The indomitable, unyielding, eminently proper Miss India Prendergast was sitting upright in her bed—still in her nightclothes—covers clutched nearly to her chin in one hand, a tray balanced on her lap, glaring at Val, who sat on the edge of her bed. More shocking still was India herself.
Her hair was loose and hung around her shoulders in clouds of unsuspected curls that caught the light and shimmered with gold highlights. Curls that were usually ruthlessly imprisoned in a knot on the top of her head, so tight it made his scalp ache to look at it. Her skin was flushed, no doubt with annoyance, and her green eyes sparkled—again, probably with annoyance. But it was most becoming. He could see little of her nightwear—a peachy shade and most flattering to her coloring—except for her arms. The almost transparent fabric was enhanced by creamy lace that caressed her wrists and whispered against the bedclothes. She was the picture of charming dishabille, an illusion at once angelic and seductive. A vision that fairly begged to be kissed. It was the oddest thought—kissing India Prendergast—but Derek couldn’t quite dismiss it. He would wager Val had thought the same thing.
Val reached a hand toward her tray. She smacked it away, and the illusion shattered.
“Good God, Miss Prendergast.” Derek stepped into the room. “Are you all right? What on earth is going on here?”
She gave Val a scathing look, then turned her attention to Derek. “This man is trying to steal my croissants, Mr. Saunders. As he has already taken two of them, and there is only one left—” her narrowed gaze shifted back to Val “—I could not allow that.”
The Lady Travelers Guide to Scoundrels and Other Gentlemen Page 9