A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Those words seem quite nice, actually.” She smiled.

  “Then you’re not angry about the…time line I’ve set?”

  Good heavens, she’d actually forgotten about that. She pulled her fingers free. “As it turns out, the one week to—how did you put it—decide whether I’m too much of a coward to be seen with Tolly James? That won’t be necessary. I don’t mind being seen with him. I like being seen with him, actually.”

  Alexander frowned, the expression drawing his exquisitely arched eyebrows downward. “He’s not a wise choice for you. It’s no secret that you don’t like a stir, Tess. And he is at the center of a whirlwind. Or he will be, if he doesn’t stop wearing that damned uniform and cursing at generals.”

  “Oh, but he looks very fine in that uniform,” she cut back, still smiling, but beginning to back away.

  “Don’t be foolish. I apologize about the ultimatum. Take your time. I’ll wait for you. Just stand back from him before you…before you ruin yourself.”

  Ha. He had no idea. And that realization made her feel unexpectedly powerful. “Don’t waste your time on me, Alexander. We would never suit.”

  “I happen to think we would suit quite well. You’re smitten with him. Luckily for you, I’m patient. If you haven’t realized that by now, look back over the past two years. I’ll stand back a bit. But don’t make yourself foolish. That reputation you’ve guarded so carefully is what makes you so attractive. I want a respectable woman for a wife, and for the mother of my heir.”

  She backed away another step. “You’re very understanding, my lord.”

  “I’m twenty-eight years old. I’ve looked. You’re the one I prefer. Don’t ruin it.”

  “Excuse me, Alexander. I’m looking for someone.”

  “First give me a place on your dance card. I said I would stand back, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t dance.”

  He actually made it sound fairly reasonable. “I’ll give you a country dance.”

  “A waltz.”

  “A quadrille.”

  “A waltz. You know there are to be two.”

  With a sigh, flattered at his persistence if nothing else, she handed over her card. Sending her a satisfied grin, he wrote down his name and handed it back.

  “Thank you. I’ll see you then.”

  She supposed she couldn’t blame Montrose for disbelieving that she’d set her sights on Tolly. At first look, Colonel James was all wrong for her. He was direct, could be sullen and rude, had a huge scandal looming over his head, and couldn’t dance. Yet he’d drawn her from the moment she’d set eyes on him. He’d told her his story, and in doing so had shown her her own tale in a different light. He stood up for what he believed in, even knowing full well it could cost him his reputation. And that it could cost him a future with her. And she loved him for that.

  Theresa stumbled, nearly tripping over her own hem. Love. She loved Bartholomew James.

  For heaven’s sake. It made so much sense. She didn’t think she’d ever even thought the word before in connection with any of the men who’d been pursuing her. None of them made her feel as though she was on fire, burning from the inside out.

  She turned around. Tolly sat in the wheeled chair he detested, Lackaby handing him another drink and pretending not to eat a sugared strawberry. Warmth slid through her muscles as she gazed at the colonel. Her colonel.

  And to think at first she worried that his unpredictability and sharp tongue would goad her into saying or doing something improper. Theresa smiled a little. The something improper had turned out to be the most thrilling, exciting, and life-altering moment of her life.

  For the first time since the death of her parents she felt…free. And strong. And worth more than her manners. She might have picked a better time and place for such a revelation, she supposed, but on the other hand, the timing might very well have been perfect.

  Smoothing her skirt, attempting to draw her scattered thoughts back in, she turned back toward her target of choice. General Mayhew wore a uniform nearly identical to Tolly’s, but aside from their employment the two men had almost nothing in common.

  “General Mayhew,” she said aloud, pasting on her best, most practiced smile.

  The square-shouldered, frown-faced officer looked around at her. “Miss Weller.” He inclined his head, but the baby-frightening expression on his face didn’t alter a whit.

  “I was wondering if you had a partner for the next quadrille,” she said smoothly. A waltz might have been more effective, but as Montrose had said, there were only two. Alexander had claimed one, and the other was for Tolly. From now on he would always have a waltz, whether he would ever be able to dance one with her or not.

  “Is this a jest?” Mayhew returned. “Or another chance to insult me? I am not a fool, Miss Weller. I’ve seen with whom you are friendly.”

  “You’re referring to Colonel James, I presume. My dear cousin Amelia is married to his brother, you know.”

  “So in truth you dislike him and are only friendly due to familial obligation? Really, Miss Weller. As I said, I am not a fool.”

  Theresa deepened her smile. “I was about to say that Tolly and I have become friends, but that I in no way thought that would make you and me into enemies. I am not so fierce, am I, General?”

  With clear reluctance he inclined his head. “I concede that point to you, Miss Weller. Did you seek me out as an apology for James’s abominable behavior?”

  “I sought you out because you are frowning. No one should frown at so delightful a party.” She pulled her dance card from her reticule. “So will you frown, or will you dance?”

  “Humph.” He took the card from her fingers, wrote down his name and returned it to her. “If you mean to leave me standing, I will be very unhappy.”

  “I try not to leave anyone standing during a dance.”

  Returning the card to her reticule, she walked off in the direction she’d briefly glimpsed Harriet. There. She’d managed to secure a dance with the frown-faced gentleman, and she hadn’t had to lie in order to accomplish it.

  She caught her friend by the arm as Harriet strolled by. “Oh, you should always wear pearls, Harriet. I don’t know why, but they make your eyes positively sparkle.”

  Harried hugged her. “I’ve missed you, Tess. No one hands out better compliments than you.”

  Chuckling, Theresa returned the embrace. “You are easy to compliment.”

  “You are the stunning one tonight.” Harriet looked her up and down. “This isn’t for Montrose, is it?”

  “It’s for me.”

  “So Amelia’s brother-in-law and his account of the Thuggee doesn’t trouble you? I thought all the muttering I’ve been hearing would have you running the other way.”

  Theresa’s smile faded. “So you think I’m a coward, too.”

  “What? No! That’s not what I meant.” Harriet clutched her hand, making the emerald on her wrist spin and sparkle. “‘A lady does not involve herself in politics or military matters except to privately support a male family member in his own endeavors.’ That’s from your b—”

  “My booklet.” She’d forgotten about that. Theresa glanced again at Tolly across the room to find him gazing back at her. She sighed, her heart trembling.

  A Lady’s Guide to Proper Behavior, as far as she knew, had been read by at least half the ladies in this room—though most of them had no idea that she was the author. She absolutely would never have published it except anonymously. But she’d just realized something. She’d had no idea what she was talking about. The second edition of her Guide needed to be amended in order to take something else into account. Love.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Tradition and custom say that we as females are better fit to watch the great events of the world than to participate in them. This may be true; I don’t know. What I do know is that at times action is required, and that sometimes the best man for an undertaking is a woman.”

  A LADY’S GUIDE TO
PROPER BEHAVIOR, 2ND EDITION

  Bartholomew was beginning to wish he’d kept his damned mouth shut. No, Theresa didn’t need to physically stand beside him all evening, but he much preferred her there to where she was currently—dancing in the arms of Lord Montrose.

  She’d also managed a quadrille with General Mayhew, which actually hadn’t annoyed him nearly as much and had gained her the admiration of Violet. But Mayhew was an enemy, easily catalogued and easy to deal with. Montrose was more complicated.

  “I still know some lads,” Lackaby muttered from behind him. “It’d be my honor to see the marquis there accidently shipped off to join the Royal Navy.”

  Bartholomew studied Theresa’s face. She was so damned good at being charming that seeing through her mask was nearly impossible, but as far as he could tell she was strictly being polite. “Not necessary,” he returned in the same tone, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Though that may change.”

  “Aye.”

  Bartholomew nodded, his gaze still on the waltzing couple halfway across the room. “Whatever comes of this, thank you, Louis.”

  “If ye want to thank me, stop trying to sack me. And don’t call me Louis.”

  “I can likely guarantee one. But not both.” With a grin, Bartholomew glanced toward the door again, to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and steel gray eyes stroll into the ballroom. Finally. “Wait here,” he said, pushing to his feet and reaching for his cane.

  The Duke of Sommerset, unlike many of the other high-ranking peers in London, did not seem to travel with a band of sycophants and other hangers-on. In fact, most the times Bartholomew caught sight of the duke, he was alone. As he was now, thankfully.

  Once His Grace arrived at an event, however, the scene was very like Moses gathering the faithful. Bartholomew pushed through a group of chattering young ladies, rendering them momentarily speechless, and stopped in front of the duke. “Your Grace.”

  “Tolly. Is it my imagination, or is your leg improving?”

  “Have you made your inquiries at the War Office?” Bartholomew asked, speaking in a low voice.

  Sommerset’s expression went flat. “Not here.”

  “I am running out of time, Sommerset. If you can’t get me answers there, I’ll go and look for them myself.”

  “I said, not here.” The duke took a breath, glancing toward the dance floor as the waltz ended and a cotillion began. “Come to the club tonight after midnight. Then we’ll talk.”

  “Yes, we will.”

  The duke faced him, and Tolly straightened from his three-legged stance to stand at his full height. Eye to eye, they glared at one another. “You will address me properly in public, Colonel,” Sommerset finally stated, his voice low and even.

  “Then yes we will, Your Grace.”

  Sommerset nodded. “Much better.”

  A moment later the usual hangers-on began to arrive around them, and Bartholomew slipped away without much notice. Apparently chatting with a duke outweighed avoiding a liar in the eyes of the ton. That didn’t even surprise him. Not any longer.

  “The way I figure it,” Montrose said from close behind him, “you don’t want to be labeled either a coward or a liar. So what are you going to do, look for other attack survivors and see if they’ll defy the East India Company for you?”

  Bartholomew slowed. “What the devil do you care what I’m about?”

  “I don’t, really. Though I do favor you beginning a battle—a war—with anyone but me.”

  “If that’s meant to provoke me, it’s a fairly feeble attempt.”

  The marquis put a hand over his heart. “I don’t want to provoke you. I’m glad to see you alive and in less than stellar form.” Montrose indicated the cane. “Apparently at the moment you’re just helpless and harmless enough to attract female attention. Begin a scrap, and your attractiveness disappears.”

  Ah, so that was what this was about. “Female attention, or a particular female’s attention?” he queried. “You’re jealous. Now you look more familiar to me.”

  “Say whatever you like, James. Just remember that I’m willing to offer you help in your battle. Unobtrusively, of course. I doubt you’ll find many more allies.” Turning his back, Montrose strolled away again.

  Well, that was interesting. And in a sense, it was encouraging. Tess had clearly informed her premiere beau that the situation had changed. She’d spoken publicly about—what? About her affection for him? About her decision to stand with someone to whom she was nearly related? About her decision to stiffen her spine and step forward? It could be any of those. Damnation.

  He turned around. “Montrose.”

  The marquis stopped his retreat. “What?” he asked, facing around again.

  “Just to be clear, she’s mine.”

  “This evening, perhaps. Tomorrow? Well, we’ll see, I imagine. The race isn’t run yet.”

  As the marquis left him standing there again, Lackaby appeared with the chair. “Here ye are, Colonel.”

  “I really don’t like that man,” Tolly said, taking a seat and stifling his responding sigh.

  “I heard there’s a navy ship leaving Northampton day after tomorrow,” Lackaby said conversationally. “Headed for Tahiti and the Pacific. It’d be a year or more before he managed to make his way back here. If he were to be aboard, that is.”

  “Don’t bloody tempt me. Over there, if you please. And stop eating where everyone can see you.”

  He motioned toward where Stephen stood with his bride, both of them smiling and looking happy—more than likely because he’d been on the other side of the room. Bartholomew scowled. If there was a way to make his point without pulling his family into scandal, he would do it. But he needed them now. They helped tie him back to the ton, to respectability. And for Theresa’s sake, that was where he needed to be. At the end of this, he needed to be respectable enough to offer for her.

  Once the next dance began, easing the crowding of the rest of the ballroom just a little, Bartholomew had the valet push him up to his brother and sister-in-law. “You aren’t dancing? I hope that’s not on my account.”

  Amelia smiled. “I’m not dancing on account of a new pair of shoes that looked darling but aren’t at all practical. He’s not dancing in protest of my not dancing.”

  “Ah. Have you heard anything interesting?”

  “No one’s saying much about you to us,” Stephen commented. “Lady Weller—Grandmama Agnes—did say that Lord Hadderly more than likely employs the Thuggee to line his own pockets.”

  “Not fond of Hadderly then, is she?”

  Leaning closer, Amelia hid a smile behind her hand. “Lord Hadderly raises very large dogs. My grandmother is obsessed with cats.”

  Well, under the circumstances, he would even accept feline alliance. “I’ll remember that,” he said aloud. “No large dogs.”

  “What about you?” Stephen asked. “I saw you talking with Sommerset. If anyone outside the Company has contacts in India, it’s Nicholas Ainsley.”

  “I don’t know if he’ll cooperate or not,” Bartholomew hedged, hoping his brother wasn’t the only one to notice him speaking with Sommerset. The more pressure he could put on the duke to assist him, the better.

  “And Montrose? What did he want?”

  “He offered his assistance.”

  “What?” Amelia exclaimed. “He’s in purs—I mean, he and…I would never have expected that.”

  “I know quite well that he’s offered for Tess,” he returned. “He seems to think my ruination will aid his cause.”

  “That’s devious of him.” His sister-in-law scowled.

  Bartholomew, though, shrugged. “He wants Theresa. I can hardly fault him for that. Though I do mean to best him in it.”

  Because he was looking for it, he saw the shadow cross Amelia’s face, the doubt that he could possibly be what Tess wanted. After all, apart from whatever wreck might come of his reputation, he couldn’t even dance.


  If he lost to the lies of the East India Company, clearly he would lose everything. And any reason to continue fighting. In that instance, perhaps he might find employment in America. He could still ride, after all, and he was a better than fair shot. Anywhere but England would do, he supposed. Or India. That left a great, wide, empty world if…

  He shook himself. This was his second chance. Before he’d met Theresa, he hadn’t thought to look for one. He hadn’t thought he deserved one. The damned Company had sparked a fire in him, but it was Tess who’d sent it into an inferno. Even if he didn’t deserve this, he bloody well meant to fight for it—for her—anyway.

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” Theresa’s soft voice came from just beyond Amelia, “but I believe this is our waltz.” She stepped around her cousin, emeralds glinting in the chandelier light.

  For a moment all he could do was gaze at her. His. Until the world came crashing down around his ears, Theresa Weller was his. And whatever happened, he meant to take full advantage of every moment of it. “So it is,” he said aloud.

  He stood again, offering his free arm to her. “Might I suggest a limp through the garden?”

  Warm fingers gripped his sleeve. “That would be delightful,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I need to practice my limping.”

  “Very amusing.” They headed out the nearest door that opened onto the terrace. She almost seemed to float beside him, all grace and beauty next to the limping, three-legged wreck that was he. “I want to kiss you, Tess.” Bartholomew stopped to face her the moment they were out of sight of the ballroom windows. “I want more, actually,” he continued, unable to keep the low growl from his voice, “but a kiss will do me for the moment.”

  “Well, then,” she whispered, and lifted up on her toes.

  He closed his eyes at the soft touch of her lips to his. Time seemed to stop there in the Tomlin-Reese garden. Cupping her face with his free hand, he deepened the kiss, the warmth of her seeping into his bones, into his soul.

  Slowly she lowered herself onto the ground again. “You are very distracting,” she murmured, her gaze still on his mouth.