The Irresistible Rogue

by Valerie Bowman

  “I have not.” The baron’s smile widened. The man had far too many teeth. He immediately bowed to Claringdon. There was something irritating about that bow. A bit too practiced. A bit too obsequious.

  Claringdon inclined his head.

  “His grace, the Duke of Claringdon, please meet Lord Edmund Fitzwell,” Daphne said.

  “My pleasure, your grace.” Fitzwell clicked his heels together and bowed again. There was something irritating about that, too.

  “Nice to meet you,” Claringdon said, eyeing the shorter man carefully.

  Lucy, Claringdon’s wife, was introduced next and the baron acted as if he’d never been in the presence of a duchess before. It was “your grace” this and “your grace” that.

  “Makes one want to start a drinking game, don’t it?”

  Rafe turned to see Sir Roderick Montague at his elbow. Sir Roderick was a confirmed bachelor who was more interested in his clothing and carriages than ladies. He had an eye for detail, fashion, and a famous biting wit. He’d been a close friend of the Swifts for years and he and Daphne often attended many of London’s amusements together with other friends.

  “Eh?” Rafe turned to the knight.

  “Let’s take a drink every time Fitzwell here says ‘your grace,’” Sir Roderick offered.

  Rafe was forced to turn his head to hide his laugh. “I expect we’d both be beneath the table in a trice,” he whispered back.

  “You’re probably right. The cut of his coat is fine, though, I’ll give him that. Looks a bit like you, Cavendish.” Sir Roderick sniffed before blending back into another group of guests.

  Rafe eyed Lord Fitzwell again. That pompous oaf didn’t look like him … did he? Rafe narrowed his eyes. Regardless, Fitzwell was being far too effusive about telling Lucy Hunt how beautiful she was. Perhaps Rafe took these things for granted. He’d known Claringdon and Swifdon for years through the military. They didn’t intimidate him. Quite the opposite, actually; he forgave both men their social status because of their connections to the military. Fitzwell, however, had no such connection.

  “Tell me, your grace. How did you get such unusually colored eyes?” Lord Fitzwell asked Lucy.

  Lucy, who had one blue eye and one hazel, turned to look directly at the baron. “Why, I ordered them from a shop, of course,” she answered simply, with a completely straight face.

  Lord Fitzwell blinked at her as if he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

  “Oh, that is too much fun,” Rafe heard Sir Roderick say under his breath.

  Rafe scanned the baron from head to toe. His hair was too slick. His cravat too neat. His coat too lint-free. His boots too polished. His nose too straight. His eyes too blue. No. There was not much to like about Lord Fitzwell. Not much at all.

  The duke and duchess soon extracted themselves from the baron’s company, and Rafe watched as Fitzwell made his way around the room, ingratiating himself with the other guests. First Swifdon, and then each man of the next successive rank. He completely ignored the Hunt brothers, mere misters, and of course he didn’t bother saying another word to Rafe.

  Rafe returned to his seat in the corner. Being ignored by that pompous jackass didn’t bother him. Rafe had dealt with people like Fitzwell his entire life. People who believed the measure of a man was taken by his title and lineage and little else. Rafe turned the brandy in his glass and stared into its amber depths. He’d long ago given up caring about the doings of the nobility. He wasn’t a part of it and he never would be. He concentrated on his job. And at the moment, his job had brought him to Mayfair to the elegant party of the Earl of Swifdon. It was true he respected Swifdon and Claringdon, and Donald had been a fine fellow. But they were clearly the exceptions to the rule. Rafe wouldn’t even be here tonight if it weren’t for his needing Daphne. He took a deep breath. Daphne. The lady might be diminutive but she certainly knew what she wanted and how to get it. And apparently, at the moment, she wanted Lord Fitzwell. She remained at his side laughing at his jests and generally peeping up at him with those wide gray eyes above that questionable fichu.

  Rafe let his gaze rake over the baron one last time. Fitzwell walked with a self-satisfied swagger, and after he was done greeting those whom he obviously felt were worth his attention, he posted himself to the right of the duke’s elbow and proceeded to comment on every word out of Claringdon’s mouth.

  Rafe’s eyes narrowed on Fitzwell. Everyone had a tell. If you looked long enough, you’d see it. Told you a great deal about a man. Yes, everyone had a tell. And he’d just witnessed Lord Fitzwell’s. Rank and status were his gods.

  The drawing room door opened just then and a heavyset older woman wearing a purple turban came strolling slowly into the room thumping a well-worn cane in front of her.

  “Aunt Willie!” Daphne exclaimed, turning and rushing toward the lady.

  “Daphne, my dear, you look as fresh as a daisy.” The woman took a moment to pull a quizzing glass from her ample bosom. “Is that the fichu I made for you last winter, dear? It looks just right on you.”

  Rafe struggled to keep a smile off his lips. Ah, that was why Daphne was wearing that thing.

  Daphne’s mother, the dowager countess, hurried over to greet her older sister as well, and the three of them returned to the group standing in the middle of the room. Daphne helped her aunt sit in a large chair that faced all the occupants. “This is my aunt, Lady Wilhelmina Harrington,” Daphne announced to the room at large.

  “And who is your rumored bridegroom, Daphne?” Aunt Willie asked, gazing about the room, her quizzing glass pinned to her cloudy grayish-blue eye.

  Daphne winced. “Oh, Aunt, I—”

  Aunt Willie pointed her quizzing glass directly at Rafe. “Because I certainly hope he’s that delectable young man right there.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Bonsoir, Capitaine Cavendish.”

  Rafe was standing near the door of the drawing room, waiting while the other guests gathered before they all went into dinner together. He glanced over to see a young girl dressed in some sort of pink concoction of tulle and satin that looked like something a carnival performer would wear on stage. She was busily batting her eyelashes at him and spoke with a decided French accent. He looked twice.

  “Good evening, Miss…?”

  “Mademoiselle Montebanque. Mademoiselle Delilah Montebanque.” The French accent did not dissipate. No doubt the name was actually a solid English Montbank, but the way the girl pronounced it, Rafe was certain she’d added a few unnecessary letters. “Do forgive me, I know we should not speak as we have not been formally introduced.”

  Rafe bowed over the hand she delicately offered. “I’m happy to correct that error now, Miss Montbank. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “I simply j’adore parties, do not you? Although I am not yet allowed to attend them. At present I am avoiding my governess, who is no doubt desperately searching for me.” She plucked at the large pink bow that sat on the top of her head.

  Rafe couldn’t help but smile. Her beginner’s French was charming and he admired the girl’s pluck. “Forgive me for being rude, but are you related to the Swifts?”

  “Oh, mon Dieu. Je suis désolée. How remiss of me not to explain. I am Lord Swifdon’s cousin. My mother’s sister is his mother’s sister. Comprenez-vous?”

  “I think so,” Rafe answered. “How did you know my name?

  “Oh, how could I not know your name, Capitaine?” the girl answered vaguely. Her dark eyes grew wide. “Vous ne parlez pas français?”

  Rafe coughed lightly into his hand. “I speak it, Miss Montbank. I merely don’t prefer it to my native tongue. I spent a bit of time in France, as you may know, and none of it was pleasant.”

  “I’m so sorry, Capitaine.” Miss Montbank’s face fell. She immediately began speaking in English again. “I did forget. Please forgive me. J’adore my French studies but I must remember that not everyone is as fond of the place as I am.”
r />   “No apology necessary. Your French is quite good, by the way. Have you been there?”

  She beamed at him. “No, I have not. But I do so hope to rectify that as soon as possible.”

  Rafe looked twice again. Had the girl just winked at him? He glanced around the room. No one else seemed to take notice of them. Daphne hadn’t arrived yet and Lord Fitzwell was busy dividing his time between the duke and the earl. Poor chap’s head just might swivel off given the amount of times he had to turn it to give them equal attention. Rafe turned back to his young companion.

  “You know there is to be a dance here tomorrow night, Capitaine?” she asked, spinning around in what Rafe could only guess was some sort of pirouette.

  “Yes. So I’ve heard,” he answered, wishing his hostess would call them in to dinner where there would no doubt be wine. Lots of wine.

  “I wish I was old enough for you to ask me to dance, Capitaine,” Miss Montbank continued. “And then you could ask me to stroll with you in the gardens and I would slap your arm with my fan and say no, but then I might very well meet you there later.”

  Rafe nearly choked. He pounded his chest with his fist. He had to smile. The girl’s honesty was downright refreshing if a bit overwhelming and slightly alarming. This was Daphne’s cousin? “How old are you, Miss Montbank?”

  “Alas, I am twelve and am not yet in possession of a fan. Though I ask for one every Christmas. Aunt Willie prefers to give fichus that are often quite hideous.”

  “I think I have seen her handiwork,” Rafe mumbled. To Miss Montbank, he said, “Even if you were old enough to dance with me, there is no music at present.”

  The girl twirled again and then performed a perfect curtsy. “Oh, I wouldn’t let that stop me. I hear music in my head most of the time.”

  Rafe smiled again. Daphne’s young cousin was a peculiar little thing. “Are you enjoying yourself so far then, Miss Montbank?”

  “The truth is it’s unpleasant to be forced to elude my governess so often.” She smiled up at him. “But I had to meet you, Capitaine. I must ask you, why did you give Cousin Daphne a little ship?”

  For the second time since he’d begun speaking with Delilah, Rafe nearly choked. “I, erm … She showed it to you?”

  “Oui. She asked me to open the box, actually. She didn’t tell me why you sent her a ship, though. She only said that being an adult is complicated.”

  Rafe nodded. “That’s true.”

  “But why a ship?”

  Rafe rubbed his chin. “I thought she would like it.”

  “I think there’s something you’re not telling me, Capitaine.” Delilah sighed. “But I’m used to it. No one ever wants to tell a child very much. Daphne says there’s a mystery here.”

  Rafe lifted both brows. “She said that?”

  “Oui. I tried to guess why she refused to tell me why you would send her a gift and I declared it a mystery. She agreed. Well, at least she didn’t disagree with me. Comprenez-vous?”

  “I do, indeed.”

  “I don’t mind, however,” Delilah said, pointing her small nose in the air. “I’ve grown quite adept at finding out things that adults don’t want me to know.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Rafe grinned at her. “Now, may I ask you a question, Miss Montbank?”

  “I should be delighted.” She curtsied again.

  Rafe scanned the room and found the baron still hanging on the duke’s every word. “What do you think of Lord Fitzwell?”

  Delilah’s face crumpled into a scowl. “I don’t think much of him. Not at all.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s difficult to put it into words precisely, but I just feel as if the man never had a day’s fun in his whole life. Comprenez-vous, Capitaine?” Delilah blushed beautifully. The pink in her cheeks matched the pink of her tulle skirt.

  Rafe couldn’t help his answering grin. “I do indeed know exactly what you mean, Miss Montbank.”

  “And it’s unfortunate that Cousin Daphne seems to be enamored of him. Aunt Wilhelmina and I are quite agog at it.”

  Rafe lifted his brows. “Aunt Wilhelmina doesn’t approve, either?”

  “It’s not that she doesn’t approve, exactly. Lord Fitzwell is quite eligible, after all. It’s just that he’s not particularly…”

  Rafe leaned forward. “Yes?”

  Delilah glanced around the room. “This is our secret, is it not?”

  “Of course.” Rafe crossed his finger over his heart and leaned down to better hear her.

  Delilah smiled at him. “He’s not particularly dashing?”

  Rafe leaned back against the door beam and crossed his arms over his chest. He stared across the room to where Lord Fitzwell was conversing with Daphne, who’d just made her appearance in a gown of sunny yellow. Daphne looked positively bored. “Dashing,” Rafe answered. “What do you mean?”

  Delilah giggled. “It’s funny you should ask that, Capitaine, as I find that you are the most dashing gentleman in the room.”

  Rafe pointed at himself. “Me?”

  “Of course. You are always off on an adventure, are you not? You see? Dashing.”

  Rafe blinked. He’d certainly never thought of himself that way but he couldn’t help but smile at the girl’s description.

  “Cousin Daphne is quite dashing as well. She’s so game and full of life. Why, she’s always willing to play hide-and-seek with me and go for long rides in the country and race and run and laugh. While Lord Fitzwell is decidedly undashing. He’s always asking who someone is related to. Or pointing out who he is related to. It’s ever so dull. I simply cannot imagine Cousin Daphne living with that stuffy Lord Fitzwell.”

  Rafe rubbed a hand across his chin. “Neither can I.”

  Delilah sighed again. “I’ve been quite beside myself thinking of ways to stop the party.”

  Rafe nearly laughed aloud at that. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know. I might come down with a convenient case of plague or the like.”

  Rafe shook his head. “That doesn’t sound particularly convenient to me. And it seems difficult to manage, given your circumstances.”

  “I agree,” Delilah answered with a resolute if unhappy nod. “Plague is far too dramatic. I continue to think upon it. The trick, of course, would be to get sick enough to send everyone home but not so sick that I cannot recover.”

  “I see.” Rafe continued to smother his laugh. “And how exactly would you contract such an illness?”

  “It’s not easy, obviously, or I would have done it by now. I am quite at my wit’s end. I’ve decided it may be more prudent to pretend I am ill than to actually be ill. I was in the library earlier reading about cholera and scurvy.”

  “I doubt very much you could claim a case of scurvy.”

  “You’re quite right. I’ve eaten at least three oranges today and Cousin Daphne’s seen me with two of them. Cholera seems an unpleasant business altogether and anything involving pox requires far too much work with a rouge pot.”

  Rafe had to press his lips together hard to keep from laughing at the earnest young lady. “I beg your pardon.”

  Delilah fluttered a hand in the air. “I’d settled on a megrim but I somehow doubt that would stop the party. I believe they would merely send me to bed and all that would accomplish is my not being here to keep Lord Fitzwell from proposing to Daphne.”

  Rafe nodded sagely. “It does seem as if you’re in quite the bind.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Capitaine. I have a trick up my sleeve. Sacrebleu, there’s my governess. I must go.” Delilah winked at him for certain this time and scurried from the room, just before the dowager countess announced that they would all go for dinner.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Lady Daphne, may I escort you for a walk about the room?”

  Daphne breathed a sigh of relief. She turned to see Lord Fitzwell holding out his arm clad in a fine dark blue velve
t jacket. Dinner earlier had been lovely. The men had had their drinks in the dining room and now all of the guests were together again, milling about the large drawing room.

  “I would be honored, my lord,” she replied, stepping closer to him and sliding her gloved hand over his sleeve.

  Lord Fitzwell led her toward the far end of the room. On the way, she endeavored to sniff at his jacket. Just a short sniff. Nothing too obvious. But her nose couldn’t seem to detect a scent. Every time she was in that rogue Rafe Cavendish’s presence, she smelled his alluring combination of soap and leather and pine and whatever else he smelled of that made her senses reel, blast him. But trying to find a scent on Lord Fitzwell was a lesson in frustration. It seemed she’d have to get even closer and that seemed unlikely. Why, she couldn’t exactly stick her nose up to his collar and sniff. That would be entirely unseemly and most likely unwelcome and probably wholly impossible to explain. A bad combination to be sure.

  She decided to give up for the time being and attempted to enjoy their stroll around the room, even though Lord Fitzwell hadn’t yet said a word. Hmm. Things had got off to a bit of a precarious start this afternoon, what with Rafe skulking about and staring at her constantly. Didn’t he know how difficult it was for one’s future bridegroom to court a lady when one’s husband was glaring down one’s neck the entire time? The frustrating man. But now, at least she’d had dinner seated next to Lord Fitzwell, and even though the conversation had lagged a bit, she was quite encouraged by the fact that he’d asked her to take a turn about the room. Today, a turn about the room. Tomorrow, hopefully, a proposal.

  And she was hopeful, wasn’t she? Lord Fitzwell was handsome, he was well mannered, eligible, titled, and he ran in the right sorts of circles. He was not known to have any scandal attached to his name. He was not a drinker. Most importantly, according to all of the sources she was able to consult, he was loyal. Loyal with no hint of being a rake. None whatsoever. That had been exceedingly important to Daphne. Yes, all in all, he was exactly the sort of man she should want to marry. Mama agreed. Julian seemed to approve. Lord Fitzwell was steadfast and sure, not the sort of man who would be, say, gallivanting across the Continent putting his life in danger at a moment’s notice. She was done with that sort of adventure, and with her childish attraction to that sort of an adventurer. So why couldn’t she muster enthusiasm when it came to the thought of an engagement to Lord Fitzwell?