by Anita Mills
“I am not overset.”
Suddenly he stopped almost mid-step and quickly turned her away, putting himself between her and something. Curious, she craned her neck to see what he’d seen, only to have him step into her line of vision.
“What is it?”
“I’d not have you unnecessarily wounded, Miss Cole.”
“I do not wound easily, my lord, and neither do I suffer from an excess of sensibility,” she snapped irritably. “I do not even have a delicate constitution.”
Even as she spoke, he allowed her to turn in time to see her betrothed escorting Mrs. Chandler from the crowded room. Those around them stared at her, spitefully waiting for her reaction, only to be disappointed when she smiled coquettishly at Marcus Halvert and did not even miss a step.
“Well done, Miss Cole,” Rotherfield commented above her ear. “ ’Twill be said that you do not care.”
Her earlier charity with Tony Barsett forgotten, she answered, “I do not. I do not care a fig what he does—’tis all of a piece with what I know of him, anyway.”
“Perhaps in the months before the wedding, your father will come to realize he has chosen unwisely.”
“Months? You mistake the matter, my lord,” she answered bitterly. “We are to wed by Special License.”
“Without the banns?” For once, the earl’s face betrayed his dismay, and then he recovered almost immediately.
“ ’Tis mutually agreed between them—Lyndon cannot wait for Papa’s money, and my father fears he will not live to see me a lady, I suppose. Please—I would not discuss it.”
He nodded sympathetically, his mind working to digest her startling news. “I own I’d heard he was badly dipped, but lately I thought he’d begun to come about. When I saw him last night, he was winning heavily of young Hawkins at White’s—beggared the boy, in fact,” he mused aloud.
“Hawkins?” This time she did miss a step. “But he is but a boy!” Collecting herself, she sought to refute the idea. “Surely Lyndon would not . . . That is, I cannot think he . . .”
“Do not overset yourself unnecessarily, my dear—I should have held my tongue. Er . . . I’d forgotten you knew the boy.”
“Yes . . . no—that is, I do not precisely know him. You were there also—’twas when his curricle jumped the curb. Poor Mr. Hawkins.”
“Well, ’tis no uncommon thing to introduce young men into gambling establishments, after all,” Rotherfield offered as an excuse for Lyndon.
“To think he would stoop so low as to take a boy’s money—I do not care how deeply he is in debt—and when he is to get Papa’s also.” Her disappointment in Lyndon was rapidly growing.
Satisfied that he’d accomplished enough, the earl turned the subject away to the polite inanities, discussing the spring flowers, the weather, Hyde Park, and the Princess Charlotte’s interesting condition, expressing the commonly held hope that the baby would be male. As for Leah, this brought forth her assertion that she rather agreed with Jane Austen, who despised the Regent for his treatment of his wife, the Princess Caroline.
“Then you cannot have ever seen her,” Rotherfield murmured, “for an uglier, more uncouth female cannot exist.”
Her reply was lost as the music ended. Abruptly the earl grasped her elbow and propelled her toward the double French doors leading to the Wicklow garden, where a hundred gaily festooned lanterns winked and floated in the cool air. “ ’Tis too hot for speech in here, my dear.”
Just as they reached the doorway, Leah turned back to see Lord Lyndon returning without Mrs. Chandler. His face darkened thunderously when he saw her with Rotherfield, and he began pushing his way toward them. The earl’s hand clasped her arm in reassurance, but she shook her head. “ ’Tis my quarrel, my lord.”
Without a word to Rotherfield, Tony grasped Leah’s hand and pulled her into the garden after him. She would have resisted, but she was loath to provide further amusement for the gossips, and therefore she held her tongue until they were out of hearing. Rotherfield stood there watching, a slight smile playing at his lips, knowing that Tony Barsett was about to make a cake of himself.
“This is unseemly, my lord,” Leah protested as soon as they cleared the terrace steps into the garden itself. Wrenching her arm free, she turned angrily to face him.
“Unseemly? Miss Cole, I do not intend to tolerate your want of conduct!” Tony snapped.
“My want of conduct! Just who do you think you are, Anthony Barsett? If you think you can read me a peal for dancing with Rotherfield whilst you dally with that . . . that brazen jade, you are very much mistaken! ’Twas not I who arranged a little meeting with my bit of fluff! It seems to me, my lord, that ’tis you who wants conduct!”
“I cannot fathom what nonsense you are speaking, Miss Cole, but I warn you, I will not tolerate your association with the likes of Rotherfield!”
“And I do not mean to tolerate your public pursuit of that woman!”
“Pursuit?” he fairly howled. “You have a dashed queer notion of pursuit, if that is what you think I was doing. If you must pry, I was telling the fair Elaine to cease pestering me!”
“Oh, ’tis rich, that is! Are you so filled with conceit that you believe I will swallow that tale whole? If ’tis as you say, then why did you have to take her outside?”
“Would you have me humiliate her publicly?”
“You humiliate me!” Clasping her arms against her in the chill night air, she flung away from him and hurried back toward the glittering ballroom.
“Just a minute, Miss Cole.” Catching up to her, he grasped her shoulders and yanked her back. “If you would discuss humiliation, let us discuss the gibes and barbs you have cast my way since the day we met!” Catching the martial light that flashed indignantly in her eyes, he continued, “I have done my best to rectify my first mistake with you, you know. This betrothal is not without constraints on me also—I have given up some of my more nefarious pleasures for you.”
“Oh? You must think me blind! You court my father for his money, and everyone knows it,” she spat at him. “And I fail to see that you have given up anything—you are still a rake and a gamester!”
“What the devil are you speaking of?” he demanded.
“Her! Oh, I know ’tis fashionable amongst the ton to sport mistresses, but I will not countenance it, I take leave to tell you! And you fleeced that poor Hawkins boy!”
“I collect you had that from Rotherfield?”
“It doesn’t make any difference where I had it, does it? ’Tis evidence of one of your nefarious pursuits you have not abandoned—and Mrs. Chandler is evidence of the other!”
“Ah, so I only have two vices, at least! Well then, Miss Cole, would you like me to enumerate your shortcomings also?”
“Yes!” Then, her face highly flushed, she caught her breath and spoke more calmly, retorting in a clipped voice, “They cannot possibly compare with yours, after all.”
“I scarce know where to begin, my dear,” he told her sarcastically. “In the first place, you seem determined to twit the very society you wish to enter, reminding everyone at every stop and turn that you are a Cit by your total lack of modest behavior.”
“You know full well ’tis not I who wish to be what I am not, and as for modesty, would you have me turn into a simpering fool just to please you?”
“I’d have you cut Rotherfield before everyone cuts you.”
“If you would ever take the time to stay and watch, you would see that I am already cut. Do not think I am so deaf that I cannot hear what is said of me.”
“You have not yet been given the cut direct. If you would but attempt to be all that is pleasing, you just might take.”
“Pleasing to whom? Stiff-necked snobs who are too worthless to work a day in their lives?”
“In the second place, you put yourself forward as a bluestocking, Miss Cole, and ’tis not fashionable for a female to attempt the discussion of anything beyon
d an occasional novel.”
“Oh, I see.” This time it was her voice that dripped sarcasm. “ ’Tis only men who are allowed any intelligence, is it? You wish me to be as empty-headed as those insipid misses who line the walls waiting to be noticed by some gentleman, too fearful of being left on the shelf to venture even the smallest original thought.” Her bosom heaving with indignation, she blew an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. “ ’Tis a pity you were not born earlier, else you could have told Mary Wollstonecraft she had no right to a mind.”
“Well, I should scarce hold her up as all a female should be,” he shot back. “She was quite free with her favors as well as her mind, from all I have read. And that brings me to another fault of yours—I heard of your climbing boy from your father, Miss Cole—you are a deuced reformer!”
“If we had to depend on your class to right any of the wrongs of this world, we should be in sad case indeed!” The strand of hair fell forward again, and she brushed it back irritably. “Indeed, ’tis the fault of fancy lords like yourself that there are climbing boys being beaten, starved, and burned every day.”
“I have never beaten, starved, or burned anyone, Miss Cole!”
“Well, if you really wished to do something worthwhile with your life, you’d speak in the House of Lords on the problem—’tis the lords who refuse to stop it.”
“Aha! And now I am to be faulted for the ills of the world also! What about the members of your class—those rich merchants who are so ready to turn a profit that they do not care whom they cheat?”
“I do not have to listen to this!” Once again she turned to leave, flouncing angrily up the narrow rock steps set amongst the foliage.
This time he caught her and pushed her against a stone garden wall. Releasing her arm, he leaned to pin her there with a hand on either side of her. The light from the colored lanterns reflected in his eyes, giving him an eerie aspect and frightening her. Her own eyes widened when he leaned even closer.
His anger suddenly gone, he spoke quite softly. “Do you know what ’tis, Leah? We are better matched than you think—we both have devilish tempers.”
Shrinking against the wall, she was not at all certain she liked the change, either. “Release me this instant, my lord—else I shall scream.”
He was so close that she could smell the clean scent of lavender soap and she could feel the warmth of his body as he leaned into hers even before he touched her. His coat sleeve brushed against her bare arm, sending a shiver down her spine.
“You tempt a man, Leah—all that fire and spirit,” he whispered.
“You would not dare . . .”
Her voice trailed off uncertainly as he blotted all else out with his head. The glittering light in his eyes was the last thing she saw before she closed her own to hide from him. His breath was warm and alive against her cheek, and then he brushed her lips lightly, sending another shiver that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold through her. His lips lingered there, warming her own, as his arms moved from the wall, one to cradle her head, the other to clasp her waist and pull her closer. Her mouth opened slightly in protest, only to be stilled by her first real kiss.
She was utterly unprepared for the sensation he gave her as the kiss deepened. For a moment she thought her knees would buckle, and she clung to him for support. She was both shocked and thrilled by the feel of his skin against hers, and when he finally released her lips, his cheek turned to nuzzle hers.
Behind them, small twigs snapped and leaves crunched, bringing both back to their senses. Leah stared wide-eyed in the starry darkness as Tony released her. Clasping her hand, he turned to face the intruder.
“Thought it was too cold for anybody to be out, told Letty so when she had ’em hang the damned lamps, but I guess I was mistaken.” Their host took in Leah’s expression and winked at Tony. “Daresay a little chill don’t stop a hot-blooded buck, though. Damme if you ain’t a hand with the females, Lyndon.”
Tony felt Leah’s fingers stiffen in his and he could have cursed Wicklow. “Miss Cole was overcome with the heat inside.” He spoke evenly.
“Guess you are wishing me at Jericho, ain’t you? Just came out to see what happened to you after Rotherfield left, that’s all.” Peering closer, he studied Tony. “Damme if I don’t think this is a love match, after all.”
“We were just going in,” Tony lied.
“Ought to, I suppose. Ain’t the thing to dally in the garden on a night like this—gel’s probably dashed cold out here.”
Embarrassed, Leah pulled her hand away and started back inside, leaving Tony to follow on her heels. Just inside the doors, she stopped, still shivering, and collected her disordered thoughts. Almost immediately, Lord Barrasford was bearing down on her, ready for his dance. She managed to smile, thankful that it was to be a country dance, for she did not think she was up to being held for another waltz.
Outside in the street, a very self-satisfied earl leaned back against the lushly upholstered carriage seat, his long legs stretched across the interior, his hat pushed back on his black locks. That strange half-smile of his played about his mouth as he surveyed the woman across from him. Lacing his fingers together across his flat abdomen, he noted, “You know, Elaine, if you exhaust all your protectors, you just might try for the stage.”
Tears flowed unchecked down her lovely face, streaking her artfully applied rouge, while she stared silently into the street. “You know, Marcus,” she said finally, “while you were enjoying yourself with your little Cit . . .” Out of the corner of her eye she saw him stiffen and his face tighten in the shadows, and she hastily amended, “. . . with your Miss Cole, then—while you were dancing with her, I was being summarily dismissed by Tony. I am afraid you will have to get the girl for yourself,” she sighed.
Rotherfield shrugged. “ ’Twas to be expected, I suppose—’tis said he is determined to hang in her pocket until the wedding. But,” he added generously, “you still have Carrington. A trifle old, I’ll admit, but rich enough to afford your tastes, and who knows, the old fool might even offer marriage.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Come, Elaine, ’tisn’t as though you expected Lyndon to offer for you,” he consoled.
“He means to have her, Marcus—I know he does.”
“Then he is doomed to disappointment, my dear, for I have put my spoke squarely in his wheel.”
17
Anthony Barsett awoke to the unwelcome news that the Earl of Rotherfield was paying him a morning call. Rousing himself from sleep, he glanced at the card on the tray and considered having his valet convey to the butler that he was not receiving. But there was something about the rather austere “Marcus C. W. Halvert, Earl of Rotherfield” that leapt from the cream-colored cardboard and demanded attention. And, as if reading his lordship’s thoughts, the valet nodded, his own disapproval patent in his expression.
“Fitch says Lord Rotherfield has expressed his intent to wait however long ’tis necessary for an audience with you.”
“Damn the man! What time can it be, anyway?” Tony leaned to open the cover of his pocket watch. “ ’Tis but ten,” he grumbled. “One would think he keeps country hours, when he is never in the country.”
“Perhaps Fitch should—”
“No.” Tony sat on the side of his bed and ran his fingers through his rumpled hair as though he could restore order to it. “Have James bring up some coffee—and tell Fitch to direct Rotherfield up.”
“Up here, sir?”
“Well, I am scarce prepared to come down,” Tony snapped irritably, “and I’d not have him in my house all morning, either. Hand me the dressing gown.” Rising, he shrugged into the brocaded robe and fastened the black braid frogs. He knew instinctively that whatever the earl wanted, it concerned Leah, and after the night he’d spent, Tony welcomed the confrontation.
“Lyndon.”
One thing he had to give Marcus Halvert—the man could make one wo
rd sound like a challenge.
“Hallo, Marcus,” Tony acknowledged coolly. “Coffee?”
“No—I shan’t stay long. I have come on business merely,” he added, cutting immediately to the heart of the matter. For the briefest moment he appeared to be absorbed in the heavy gold-and-onyx signet ring he wore, and then his black eyes met Tony’s. “ ’Tis quite simple really—you find yourself in dun territory, and I am prepared to assist you out of it.”
“You will of course forgive me if I take a cup?” Tony inquired politely, spooning a dollop of heavy cream into his coffee and stirring it. “Now, I do not consider myself sufficiently acquainted with you, Marcus, to discuss my affairs. The state of my fortune need not concern you.” His eyes still on the earl, he lifted the cup and sipped. “Are you quite certain you do not wish some? ’Tis the best to be had of Johnathen’s—excellent really.”
“Do not be a fool!” Rotherfield snapped.
Tony’s eyes went hard over the rim. “You have been misinformed, my lord—I do not require your aid.”
“I am prepared to match Cole’s settlement, Lyndon.”
“My dear Marcus, you could not possibly. For one thing—”
“How much do you owe?” the earl broke in harshly. “Ten thousand? Twenty? Thirty?”
“As I was about to say, the lovely Leah is the most tempting part of Jeptha Cole’s offer.”
“She doesn’t want to marry you.”
“But her father approves the match.”
“Name your price, Lyndon—I am not averse to your making a profit in the course of our agreement.”
“I have no price, Marcus—none. Like you, I want the girl herself, so we are at cross-purposes, are we not?” Tony’s voice was soft but there was no mistaking the will beneath. “So if you do not care for coffee, there’s naught else to be said between us.”
“I’d not thought you a foolish man—or a stupid one.”
A chill ran down Tony’s spine at the veiled threat in the other man’s words, but his face did not betray him. “If you mean to call me out, Marcus, by all means do so. I am not afraid to meet you, you know—and unlike Calicott, I am better than a fair shot. I am also less than half his age.”