“If Blalock hadn’t expired,” he asked slowly, half-wishing he’d decided against voicing the question because first, he didn’t care, and second, it was a complication, “how would you be proceeding? Would you have demanded that fat old lecher take a room above your club? Would you have intimated that you and he were old … friends?”
“Now who sounds jealous?”
“I’m merely curious. I was a last-minute replacement, after all.”
She sighed. “If you must know, in return for leasing the old Monarch Club for my use, Blalock would have been able to entertain there when he wished, with the intimation that yes, we were lovers.”
“Well, you’ll just pretend to be lovers with anyone, won’t you?”
“Why not, if it serves my purpose?”
Oliver lifted an eyebrow. “Why do I have the distinct feeling that Blalock didn’t know you only wanted to appear to be his lover, rather than actually stooping to sharing his bed?”
“He would have discovered that, eventually.”
“You’ve lost every ounce of your heart, haven’t you?”
“Your kettle is blacker than mine. And I didn’t lose it. I disposed of it. It was only getting in my way, the useless thing.”
The coach stopped, and a footman flipped down the steps, then pulled open the door. Oliver stepped down first and caught Diane’s elbow as she descended. “You’re a liar,” he whispered.
“And you’re a coward.” She straightened her gown. “Offer me your arm properly.”
“Yes, my lady.” That last bit stung some, but he supposed he deserved that, too.
“And if you ruin this for me, I will destroy you.”
As much time as he spent deciphering his fellows across a gaming table, Oliver had no trouble at all reading Diane at the moment. She meant it. What she didn’t realize, however, was the deeper the play, the more he liked it.
* * *
The difficulty with threatening a man who spent as much time beyond the fringes of propriety as Oliver Warren did was that he simply didn’t frighten easily. Diane could see it in his eyes as he accompanied her into the crowded Dashton House ballroom. She’d very clearly threatened him with ruination, and all she received in response was mild, brief appreciation.
It didn’t give her much reason to believe that fear would compel him to behave as she required. Without that letter she’d carefully locked away, she would have gotten nothing at all from him. And even though she should—and did—know better, it greatly irritated her that the skills she’d worked so hard to master didn’t seem to affect him at all.
“Two waltzes,” Jenny murmured, appearing at her free elbow. “The first one as soon as this quadrille is finished, and the second one directly after refreshments.”
Damnation. She would have preferred a bit of time to observe the guests and to decide whether to attack or defend before she stepped onto the dance floor with the devil. Diane took a slow breath. Then again, she reminded herself, she was no angel. Without much effort at all she’d managed to send him fleeing the Continent two years ago. Surely she could spar with him for four minutes and not resort to physical violence.
“Is that what she does?” Oliver asked as Genevieve slipped into the crowd again. “Flit hither and thither spying on people?”
“When I ask her to. And she’s quite good at it. So watch yourself.”
“I’ll be too occupied with watching you, and wondering when you’ll realize that threatening me with every other sentence is nothing but a waste of syllables.”
“It’s habit, I suppose. In our brief previous acquaintance you ended by disappointing me.” Whether that word was sufficient to describe her feelings after she realized he’d left Vienna she would contemplate another time. It was more important that he realize she was no longer the weak, panicked ninny she’d been two years ago when they’d met. She was as immune to him as he was to her.
“Haybury. Been wondering if you’d appear this evening.”
Oliver’s arm muscles tightened beneath her fingers, then relaxed again. “Manderlin,” he said. “Have you met Lady Cameron?”
A tall mop of light-colored hair half-obscuring one brown eye bowed at her. The figure beneath wasn’t bad at all and his features were quite pleasant, but that hair—my goodness. Someone badly needed to take a barber to that man.
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure,” the fellow drawled. “Introduce me, will you?”
“Jonathan Sutcliffe, Lord Manderlin,” Oliver said without preamble. “Diane Benchley, Lady Cameron.”
“I could have done that much,” Lord Manderlin returned, shaking his head. “I know her damned name. A good introduction includes details. How each of us met you. Whether we’re married or available. A favorite wine or sweet, perhaps.”
“Do your own research.” The music for the waltz began, and Oliver closed his fingers over her wrist. “After this dance.”
She wanted to pull away from his grip, but resisted doing so. The decision to actually take to the dance floor was supposed to have been hers, but then she hadn’t told him that. Thus far he’d tolerated her orders and demands, which gave her the superior position. If she pushed too hard and he balked, she would lose that measure of control—or the illusion of it, which was nearly the same thing.
Still holding her beside him, Oliver made his way to the middle of the dance floor. She approved the location—those not dancing would have only glimpses of her and Haybury, while the couples immediately around them would be able to see but not to hear any conversation. And it would look like they were conversing, whether they actually said anything to each other or not.
Then Oliver slid an arm around her waist, and she jumped before she could stop herself. The marquis cocked his head at her, his own steps unhesitating as he turned her into the dance. “If I were you,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t allow me to see that a simple touch unsettles you so.”
“I wasn’t unsettled,” she returned, favoring him with a cool smile for the benefit of any onlookers. “I was repulsed. I am tolerating you for the sake of The Tantalus, and nothing more.”
“Hm. You’ve generally been less direct with your jabs. You know, statements like that might injure my feelings.”
“It would take more than words to score that rhinoceros hide of yours.” Steeling herself, she looked directly at him—no small feat given the fact that he was at least eight inches taller than she was. “We can attempt to be civil, however, if you prefer.”
“You’re serious? I don’t know which part of me to guard now.”
It would help her cause if they looked friendly, so she smiled. “What is your opinion of current fashion?”
“I prefer black.”
“Very amusing.”
“What do you think of the London aristocracy, now that you’ve returned?”
“I don’t actually wish to tell you anything you might later use against me,” she said.
“You’re too suspicious, Diane.”
“Ah. Well, you taught me a great deal over a very short acquaintance, Oliver. Lessons I shan’t ever forget.”
“You’re welcome, then.” He drew her a breath closer to him as they turned. “Oh, that wasn’t meant to be a declaration of gratitude, was it? You were attempting to shame me or something.” Oliver grimaced briefly. “Hm. Care to give it another go? I can’t guarantee I will appear contrite, but I’m willing to make the effort.”
Resorting to physical violence had never crossed her mind—until that moment. If she attempted to slap him, however, two things were likely to happen: first, he would block the blow; and second, he would push her to the floor in front of everyone and ruin any mystery and dignity she’d managed to build since her arrival in London. “I don’t require contrition. I stated a fact. And here’s another fact: I don’t trust you. And because I don’t trust you, I can never like you. Ever again.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve decided to abandon civility already, then?”
�
��Yes. It clearly serves no purpose with you.”
Oliver stopped. In the middle of the Dashton ballroom, in the middle of a waltz. Lady Hubert and her escort nearly crashed into them, and Diane shifted a step to avoid the couple. For a heartbeat she noted that a few years ago such a move would have embarrassed—mortified—her, while now she was only concerned with how to turn the incident to her further advantage.
Offering him a soft smile, she kissed her palm and then placed her hand over his mouth. “You do say the most interesting things, Lord Haybury,” she commented, then whirled away through the tumble of disorientated dancers. Somehow Jenny met her at the edge of the floor and fell in silently beside her. “We’re leaving,” Diane murmured at her companion, keeping the faintly amused expression on her face. “Get us a hack.”
With a slight nod, Jenny vanished again. As soon as Diane passed out of the ballroom and through one of the hallway doors, she slowed, then ducked into the first empty room she glimpsed. That … man. That arrogant, awful man.
He’d tried to embarrass her. Tried to gain ground in what was already turning out to be quite the chess game. And the most annoying part of it all was that until she’d threatened him with blackmail she hadn’t done anything wrong. Not where Oliver Warren was concerned, anyway. He’d found her in Vienna. He’d seduced her—though she’d certainly been a willing enough participant. He’d fled without a word. And now he, what, threw a tantrum because she wanted things her way?
She needed to make it perfectly clear that this was business and nothing more. Private personal feelings of wounded pride, animosity, revenge—well, they would both simply have to put such things aside.
And just to be safe she would ask Juliet’s former employer if he could equip her with a less visible pistol or two. She didn’t want to have to come up with a third plan to see The Tantalus opened, but she would do so if necessary. Lord Haybury needed to realize that what he wanted and what he thought didn’t matter. And the sooner he did realize that, the better for both of them.
“I thought I saw you come in here.”
The hard responding thump in her chest eased immediately. Oliver did not have a high-pitched voice or a Cornwall accent that even the very finest finishing school hadn’t quite been able to erase. “Lady Dashton,” she said, turning around. “I hope you don’t mind. I saw the Gainsborough painting as I passed down the hallway, and I had to stop and admire it.”
The viscountess’s gaze shifted to the large family portrait hanging above the mantel. “It is fine, isn’t it? Of course my sons are much older now, as are Stuart and I, I’m afraid.”
“It’s lovely,” Diane commented, without looking at it again. Lady Dashton’s fists were clenched; hardly what Diane would generally expect to see from a hostess chatting with an admiring guest. “And you all look very happy. I’ve never understood why so many painters settle such dour glares on their subjects.”
“My husband is quite interested to learn more about your … club,” the viscountess said abruptly, ignoring Diane’s conversation.
“He won’t have long to wait, then. I mean to open the doors of The Tantalus within a month.”
“You know, Harriette Wilson became famous because of her impropriety with some quite distinguished gentlemen. But she’s still never been invited to a proper Society event, and we still call her a whore.”
Now Diane knew what the conversation was about. She clucked her tongue. “Such language, Lady Dashton. And yes, you’re utterly correct about Harriette Wilson. But in her favor, she’s never claimed to be anything but what she is.” Curving her lips, Diane took a half step forward. “Allow me the same credit. Some of the gentlemen’s clubs in Vienna and elsewhere on the Continent were magnificent. I am bringing that refinement to London.”
“The idea th—”
“And who knows?” she pressed, shrugging. “If other ladies are as interested in The Tantalus Club as you are, I may institute a ladies’ evening. A bit of genteel wagering and some Madeira and biscuits, perhaps. Served by handsome young men.”
“Is that meant to sway me toward approval? Because I do not approve.”
Deepening her smile, Diane inclined her head. “Then you needn’t attend. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a coach waiting.”
“I wonder how much longer you’ll be invited to proper Society events,” Lady Dashton returned, stepping out of the doorway to let her past.
“We shall see. It will be interesting, won’t it?”
As she turned down the hallway she caught sight of Oliver leaving the ballroom at the far end. If she had to fence with him again this evening her head—and her temper—would explode. Hurrying without appearing to do so was something of an art, but one she’d mastered shortly after her marriage. In a moment she was outside and climbing into the waiting hack.
“I know you did your research, but are you certain there isn’t anyone else from whom we could secure financing?” Jenny asked from beside her.
“I imagine we might,” Diane said slowly. “But I don’t want word of my cash difficulties getting out. More than anything else, that could ruin me. Gentlemen attend clubs for prestige and amusement and to risk. If I appear to be desperate for money, they will all assume I mean to cheat them.”
“But Haybury isn’t proving to be at all amenable.”
She sighed. “He’s a stubborn blackguard. I’ll give him that. At the same time, he’s more likely to keep certain of my secrets safe than anyone else I can imagine. After all, I hold one of his secrets. It’s a balance, and one I simply don’t have with anyone else.”
“Until he throws you out a window.”
“It would still be a balance. I would be dead, but his reputation as a man would be destroyed.”
Jenny sank back into the corner of the small coach. “I did not anticipate that this task would be a simple one. But neither did I expect that we would be having this much difficulty less than a week after we received our funds.”
Disquiet stirred in Diane’s chest. “I know how much I’m asking of you, Jenny. If you don’t wish to continue, well, I’ll figure out something el—”
“Nonsense, Diane. You found me again at a very … difficult time. If for no other reason than that, I would remain. But to have rediscovered a friend, as well—I will travel down any road you choose.”
Diane grabbed her friend’s hand and squeezed it in hers. “Thank you. But because we are friends, you must tell me if I’m driving us off that road and into the hedgerow.”
With an uncharacteristic chuckle Genevieve squeezed back and then retrieved her fingers. “In some ways I hope this ride will continue to be as exciting as it’s begun, as long as we reach our destination.”
“And I hope I don’t have to shoot the horse.” The very troublesome stallion was going to have to be convinced to follow her rules before he ruined everything. And no man was going to ruin things for her ever again. Not even the Marquis of Haybury. No, especially not him.
Chapter Six
“My lord, a message just arrived for you.”
Oliver wiped butter from his fingers and gestured at the silver tray his footman held. “Let’s see it, Myles.”
The moment Oliver saw the elegant swirl of his name on the outside of the note, he knew who’d sent it. Three days, just as she’d informed him. Despite the constant and almost palpable urge to stride through the front door of Adam House and inform her that he’d been the one delivering the lesson and that no one left him standing on the dance floor, he’d resisted. He’d gone about his usual activities—or most of them, anyway—and waited for her to make the next move.
“That’ll be all,” he informed the footman, and rose to head for his office. As he walked the short distance down the hallway he passed the familiar painting of Aphrodite rising from the sea. When he closed the house, that would be joining him at The Tantalus Club, mostly because the depiction of a naked and openly seductive female would likely annoy Diane no end.
He walked to th
e window that overlooked the carriage path and Lord Penbridge’s underused billiards room next door and took a seat. Manderlin and others had asked why he didn’t purchase a house in Town now that he’d inherited the wealth of the Marquisdom of Haybury, but he didn’t see the point. The only entertaining he did was of the very intimate variety, and he spent very little time at home, anyway. Outside the walls was much more interesting.
“Speaking of which,” he muttered, and unfolded Diane’s note.
“‘Haybury,’” he read aloud, “‘you are to sit down at noon today with a group of potential employees. I expect you to arrive at half eleven so I may go over your instructions with you. C. of Cameron.’”
The damned chit excelled at giving orders. And of course he would have to arrive on time, or he would look like a petulant schoolboy. Pushing at her control would take more sophistication than being tardy—and he hated repeating himself, anyway.
Swiftly he scribbled out a note to Amelia Lawson canceling their luncheon engagement, setting aside the realization that he’d meant to do that regardless of his orders. Playing about with pretty chits was a pleasant enough diversion, but he was waging a battle. And he would unfortunately have to discuss with Diane what he was supposed to tell the various females of his intimate acquaintance. He refused to let them believe he’d suddenly become either smitten or impotent.
He rang for Myles, one of only four servants he employed at his small residence. Haybury Park in Surrey was where the bulk of his employees worked and resided, but in the two years since he’d inherited his uncle’s title, Oliver hadn’t spent that much time there, either. For most of his life he’d been transient—boarding schools, university, London, Madrid, Rome, Vienna—and settling into one home, or even one country, still felt uncomfortable.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Send someone for my horse, will you?”
“Right away, my lord. Mrs. Hobbes inquired whether you would be in for dinner tonight, as she’s just purchased a suckling pig.”
A Beginner's Guide to Rakes Page 6