“As a respectable member of society. One who attends balls and is sought for dances.” His voice deepened. “Not one who is ostracized for engaging in a scandalous race.”
Perish the man, he was as bad as Pierce. “Racing you isn’t scandalous,” she said tartly. “People do it all the time.”
“The rules are different for men than for women, especially unmarried ones, as you well know. Racing me will instantly reduce your prospects for marriage.”
Why did he care? “You assume that if I don’t race you, lords and rich merchants will drop at my feet like beggars at a feast.”
His eyes became carefully blank. “Is that what you want? For a lord to beg to marry you?”
“No, indeed,” she said as he led her expertly in the turns. No great surprise that he was a good dancer. He was probably good at anything that involved manhandling women. “I want to stay at home and take care of my grandfather until he dies. No lord would allow that. Even if I could find one who begged.”
“I see. And what does your grandfather think of that plan?”
Heat rose in her cheeks. “That is none of your concern.”
“Ah, but it is.” He drew a deep breath. “Because of Roger’s death, you’ll lose your home when the general dies. Waverly Farm is entailed upon your cousin.”
A chill ran down her spine. “How did you know that?”
“I hired a Bow Street runner to look into your situation after you challenged me to that race.”
She gaped at him. “You . . . you . . . what?”
“He tells me that things have been difficult. Your grandfather had planned on Roger’s inheriting the stud farm and helping him run it. Then Roger died. And when you turned sixteen, the general was thrown from a horse and incurred serious injuries, so it has taken him some time to—”
“How dare you!” she hissed. He’d dug into her family’s private affairs? How mortifying! “Poppy is fine. We are fine, you . . . you presumptuous wretch.”
She tried to break free of him right there, but he gripped her hand and waist so tightly that she’d have to make a scene to get him to release her. And she wasn’t about to humiliate herself before him and his lofty friends, who were probably laughing about it this very minute.
He bent close, his expression oddly resolute. “The stud farm is struggling, and he can’t afford to give you a season or a sufficient dowry. So don’t pretend that your refusal to marry is a choice. The truth is, your situation makes it difficult for you to find a husband. You’re just making the best of the bad hand dealt to you.”
She wanted to sink into the floor. No, she wanted to slap him for his unemotional recitation of their problems.
“This ball tonight is the first you’ve ever attended,” he went on. “And you’re only here because I persuaded the duke to invite you and your family.”
She fantasized driving a stake through his heart. “I should have known. You want to humiliate me before your friends, as revenge for my making you a laughingstock with my challenge.”
“Oh, for the love of God—” He blew out a frustrated breath. “Even if you had made me a laughingstock, which you haven’t, I have no desire to humiliate you.” He stared her down. “I got you invited so I could make you a proposition. Since I doubted that your grandfather would allow me to call on you, I had to arrange matters myself.”
His gaze on her was intent, serious . . . disturbing. It filled her with a strange feeling of wariness. “A proposition having to do with our race?” she asked, her heart beating violently in her ears.
“Damn it to blazes, no! I’m not interested in racing you.”
“Aha! Now the truth comes out. I hadn’t thought you a coward.”
Something glittered in his eyes. “And I hadn’t thought you stupid.”
The edge in his voice made her shiver, and not entirely with fear.
She hadn’t known Lord Gabriel when he was Roger’s friend. Roger had considered her too young, at thirteen, to hang around with him when he was with his lordly friends. Besides, the men had generally been at school, and when not there, they’d met in London, either at some tavern or at the town house owned by Lord Gabriel’s grandmother, Mrs. Plumtree.
So she’d seen him only once—at Roger’s funeral. Even that had been a mere glimpse, since Poppy had ordered him off the grounds the moment he’d arrived.
Still, that glimpse had been enough to make her hate him for surviving the race that her brother had not. Though perhaps he wasn’t quite what she’d thought.
“All right then, not a coward,” she conceded. “So I don’t understand your reluctance to race me. You seem to race whoever challenges you.”
“Not women.” His gaze burned into her. “Not Roger’s sister.”
“As if that matters,” she scoffed. “You’ve never shown any interest in my family before.”
“That’s because I was unaware that you—No matter what you think of me, Roger was my closest friend. I cared enough about him that I don’t want to see his sister embroiled in a scandal. I’d like to propose something else instead.”
She couldn’t imagine what that might be. “I want to court you,” he finished.
For a moment she thought she’d misunderstood him. Then she noticed the expectant look on his face and realized he was perfectly serious.
“You? Court me?” She imbued the words with as much contempt as she could muster. “That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard.”
He didn’t look the least bit insulted. “Hear me out,” he said as he whirled her about on the highly polished wood floor. “Thanks to me, you have no one to provide for you. If Roger had lived, he would have inherited Waverly Farm and you would have always had a home, but since he didn’t, you’ll lose it when your grandfather dies.”
“And your solution to that is that I marry you,” she said, still hardly able to believe what he offered.
“It’s the least I can do. I don’t expect you to leap into it willy-nilly, but surely you could consider a courtship.” His eyes gleamed at her beneath the warm glow of the gas lamps. “You might find I’m not so awful once you get to know me.”
“I know enough already to tell me that you’re arrogant, nosy, prone to make assumptions—”
“I spoke the truth about your situation. Admit it.”
“You overstepped your bounds,” she said stoutly. “You had no right.”
He muttered a low curse. “I’m trying to help you.”
Humiliation washed over her. The only thing worse than being proposed to by your worst enemy was being pitied by him. “I don’t need your help, sir. And I certainly don’t need—or want—you as a husband.”
The scoundrel didn’t even flinch. “Only because you’ve heard some foolish gossip about me. Give me a chance. I might surprise you.” He flashed her a cocky smile. “Your brother liked me well enough.”
“Yes, and he ended up dead for his pains,” she shot back.
A stricken look crossed his face, and she almost wished she could take back the words. Until that vestige of grief vanished, replaced by a steely determination that frightened her.
“That’s exactly why I’m offering to make amends by marrying you,” he said with a cold lack of emotion. “Because you have a grim future ahead of you if you don’t find a husband.”
What a monstrous thing to say, even if it was true. She tipped up her chin. “I’m perfectly content living with my grandfather.”
“He won’t live forever. And when he dies—”
“I’ll find a position as a lady’s companion.”
Lord Gabriel scowled. “And be subject to your patron’s every whim?”
“As your wife, I’d be subject to your whims. Why is that better?”
“Because I would have your best interests at heart. Your patron would not.”
“Then I’ll become a governess.”
“You’d throw yourself upon the mercy of some dragonfaced matron and her seven children? How could that be satisfying to a wom
an of education and good breeding?” His gaze played over her face. “And what if your beauty puts you at the mercy of a philandering husband or lecherous son?”
Ignoring his second surprising compliment to her looks, she glared at him. “You assume that everyone has your morals, sir.”
“Those aren’t my morals,” he snapped. “But many men have them, and I’d hate to see Roger’s sister fall prey to such.”
There it was again, his reference to her as Roger’s sister. Did he really feel guilt over what had happened? The day she’d confronted him at Turnham Green, he’d shown a great deal of remorse, but she’d assumed that was only in front of his family, whom he didn’t want to think ill of him. Yet here it was again.
She snorted. It wasn’t remorse he was showing, but arrogance. How typical. The way he strutted around town laughing at death, as if Roger’s accident hadn’t touched him one whit, made her steaming mad.
Besides, his offer of marriage didn’t fit his character. Though she didn’t move much in society, she had heard about the Sharpe brothers’ exploits with women. Why did he want to marry all of a sudden? And why her?
She didn’t for one minute believe that he genuinely wished to make amends. He hadn’t tried to do so since the letters he’d written to Poppy right after Roger’s death. And this would be an extreme way to make amends—to leg-shackle himself for life. No, he must have some ulterior motive. She just didn’t know what it was.
Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t marry him for any reason.
“As flattered as I am by your eagerness to improve my circumstances, sir,” she said in a cutting tone, “I’m afraid I must decline your offer. The only thing I want from you is a chance to race you. If you’re not interested in that, I see no reason to continue this conversation.”
Lord Gabriel looked frustrated, which gave her a wicked satisfaction.
The dance was ending, thank goodness. She would find Pierce and leave, now that she knew her invitation had merely been a ruse.
“What if I agree to a different race?” he said, as the last notes of the waltz sounded. “Not on the course that killed your brother, but on another course.”
She stared at him in surprise. “A carriage race,” she said, to confirm what he meant.
He led her from the floor, covering her hand with his. “Between you and me. If you win, I’ll race you at Turnham Green as you’ve been plaguing me to do.” He shot her a challenging glance. “But if I win, you let me court you.”
She sucked in a breath. She might get her race at Turnham Green after all. If she won this new race he was proposing.
“You can even pick the course,” he said.
Her blood began to pound. If she picked the course, she’d have an even better chance of winning. And wouldn’t that be delicious—to beat him twice, especially after all his presumptuous talk about marrying her? He’d never be able to hold his head up around his friends again!
“Any course I like?” she asked.
He nodded. “You could even use the same one you ran against Letty Lade.”
Not a chance. She’d raced Lady Lade at Waverly Farm, when the Lades had come to have a mare covered by one of Poppy’s studs. She and Lady Lade had raced down a dirt track only a mile long. Expecting the notorious Angel of Death to race her along that tame course would be embarrassing.
But another sprang instantly to mind. “What about the one near Ealing that you and Roger raced all the time?” And that she’d driven her curricle along a hundred times. Roger used to bring her over there when he wanted to practice, and she was the one he’d practiced against.
He raised an eyebrow at her. “You know about that?”
She feigned nonchalance. “Roger always talked about his races against you. It annoyed him that he couldn’t beat you more often.”
“He beat me often enough,” Lord Gabriel said tersely.
Just not when it counted.
They were halfway around the room from the corner where Pierce was standing, holding two goblets of punch and watching her with narrowed eyes.
She ignored her cousin. “So is it a bargain? We race the course near Ealing?”
Lord Gabriel’s gaze bore into her with unsettling intensity. “Do you agree to my terms?”
She hesitated. But really, how could she not? It didn’t matter that his terms involved courtship—she was going to win. Her horses knew that course well. He might have a fast rig, but so did she, and she had the advantage of being smaller and lighter than he.
“I agree to your terms.”
A smile broke over his face that nearly took her breath away. It was truly vexing how handsome he could look when he wanted.
“Very well then,” he said, “the course near Ealing. Is this Friday too soon for you?”
That gave her little more than three days to prepare, but it would suffice. “Certainly, as long as it’s after one p.m., so my grandfather thinks I’m off on my afternoon ride.” Slowing her steps as they neared Pierce, she lowered her voice. “And don’t tell my cousin. He’ll go right to Poppy with it.”
A knowing look crossed Lord Gabriel’s face. “Does that mean we’re to have a secret race? Just the two of us?”
Something in Lord Gabriel’s lazy smile put her on her guard. And made her heart pound the teeniest bit faster.
She scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Pierce has to be there. Someone must make sure you don’t cheat.”
“For God’s sake—”
“But I won’t tell him until the last minute. That worked well when he brought me to Turnham Green.” She lifted her chin. “I can get Pierce to do whatever I please.”
“Except not tattle on you to your grandfather,” Lord Gabriel said dryly. “I suspect there are limits to even Devonmont’s indulgence of your whims.”
“None that I’ve reached.”
“Yet.”
Lord Gabriel didn’t understand her friendship with her cousin. She was practically a sister to him.
But as Pierce came up to them, too impatient to wait for their approach, she wondered if there were limits to his indulgence.
“Good evening, Sharpe,” Pierce said in a cool voice. He thrust a goblet at her. “You said you were thirsty.”
“Indeed I am. Thank you.”
Pierce glanced at Lord Gabriel. “I was surprised to see you two dancing, Sharpe, given Virginia’s dislike of you.”
“That’s water under the bridge,” Lord Gabriel said with a dismissive smile.
Virginia eyed him askance. The man had an annoying tendency to believe whatever suited him.
A gentleman sauntered up to join them who looked familiar, and both Pierce and Lord Gabriel stiffened at his approach.
“Well, well,” the man said, taking in the little group with a gaze of keen interest, “what a surprise to see you here, Sharpe. You missed the race today.”
Lord Gabriel shrugged. “No reason to come. I knew Jessup’s filly would win.”
“What do you say to that, Miss Waverly?” the stranger said with oily condescension. “Too bad you didn’t consult with Sharpe. Your grandfather could have saved himself the trouble and just kept Ghost Rider home.”
Virginia took an instant dislike to the man. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t believe I know you.”
Pierce stepped in to introduce the man as Lieutenant Chetwin. “Chetwin was the one who raced his rig against Sharpe’s at Turnham Green,” he added.
“Ah, yes, I remember.” Another reckless scoundrel willing to do anything for the thrill of it, no matter whom it might hurt. She was surprised that Pierce knew him, though. He’d never mentioned the man.
“Tell me, Miss Waverly,” the lieutenant said with a smirk, “is Sharpe still balking at racing you?”
“I hardly see how that is any concern of yours,” she said coldly.
That banished his smirk. “I merely wondered if he’s as skittish about racing you as he is about racing me. I keep trying to convince him to race again at Turnham Gr
een, but he won’t. Last time, I had to insult his mother to prod him into threading the needle.”
“And yet I beat you,” Lord Gabriel drawled, though his eyes glittered. “If not for clipping that boulder and destroying my phaeton the first time we raced there, I would have beaten you twice.”
“Yes, but not hitting the boulders is rather the point, old boy,” Lieutenant Chetwin sneered. “Don’t you agree, Miss Waverly?”
Was the dreadful man referring to her brother’s death? “It seems to me that winning is the point, sir. And you lost.”
Lieutenant Chetwin’s gaze turned frigid. “Only because one of my horses’ hooves picked up a stone, as Sharpe well knows. And because I had the good sense to pull back before I could be dashed upon the rocks.”
She was stunned into silence at the reference. What sort of boor trampled on someone’s grief?
“That was beyond the pale, Chetwin. But then, you never did learn how to speak properly to a lady,” Lord Gabriel growled.
Chetwin flicked a dismissive glance over her. “A lady doesn’t challenge gentlemen to races she never intends to run.”
“I do intend to run it!” she said hotly. “As soon as I beat Lord Gabriel in Ealing on Friday!”
The moment the words left her mouth, she could have kicked herself.
“If you’ll excuse us, Miss Waverley agreed to stand up for this next dance with me,” Lord Gabriel said, and whisked her back onto the floor.
This time the dance was a reel. Appropriate, since her mind was reeling.
Lord Gabriel had defended her to that nasty Chetwin. And until she’d blurted it out herself, he’d kept her secret about the race, too, when he could just as easily have countered the lieutenant’s insinuations by bragging to the man about it. Given his apparent flair for the dramatic, that was rather strange.
He caught her about the waist to dance her up the line and said, “Sorry about that, Miss Waverly. Chetwin is an arse.”
“I agree. Why does he hate you so?”
A muscle ticked in Lord Gabriel’s jaw. “I won a race against him in front of his entire cavalry regiment and humiliated him before the men under his command. He’s resented me ever since. That’s why he keeps badgering me about racing him at Turnham Green again.”
To Wed a Wild Lord Page 4