by Amelia Grey
Susannah laid her gloves and reticule on the side table. “Of course not. Why would I, when I have one there? I will leave it here for the owners of this house so others can enjoy it, or,” she added thoughtfully, “perhaps I can find a small church here in London that is in need of a used pianoforte and donate it to them. That might be a nice thing to do, don’t you think?”
“Very nice,” Mrs. Princeton agreed, brushing her wiry gray hair away from her eyes.
“What is important to me right now is that it will give me comfort and pleasure to play in the afternoons. And since the owner of this house has not seen fit to keep a gardener employed on a regular schedule, I think I will look into the possibility of hiring someone.”
“I would be happy to see to that for you.”
“Thank you. It appears I’m going to be staying in London longer than I originally thought,” she said more to herself than to her companion. “So I might as well make this house as pleasing and comfortable as possible.”
“Oh, my, look at this,” Mrs. Princeton said, thumbing through the calling cards that lay on a silver plate on the vestibule table. She looked up at Susannah with a sparkle in her eyes. “You have become popular since we left the house today. You had several callers while we were out. And look, more invitations have arrived. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Susannah pursed her lips and frowned. “I don’t consider that wonderful. You know I was hoping to stay out of the public eye while here.”
Mrs. Princeton chuckled lightly. “How could you do that when you have now been seen in Hyde Park with one of the most popular, most handsome, and most eligible gentlemen in all of London? The marquis was the perfect gentleman for you to be seen with. He is not seen as a gambler or a fortune hunter.”
“What did I tell you about trying to be a matchmaker?” Susannah said with more merriment than she was feeling.
“Not to.”
“That’s right. The eligibility of a gentleman does not matter to me. I am not here to find a husband.”
Mrs. Princeton sighed. “More’s the pity,” she mumbled under her breath and then quickly added, “I see the Times has been delivered, too. It’s been two days since you were with the marquis. Do you think perhaps you should look at it and see if you are mentioned in Lord Truefitt’s Society’s Daily Column today?” Mrs. Princeton held out the newsprint for her.
“Do I really want to know the answer to that?”
“Up to you, of course,” Mrs. Princeton said, the twinkle returning to her eyes.
Susannah took the Times, folded it, and tucked it under her arm without answering her companion. She would decide later if she would read it.
“You have four calling cards, all from ladies, it seems. Obviously someone recognized you when you were in the park a couple of days ago.”
“Perhaps. Also, the marquis or Sir Randolph could have mentioned to someone that I am in Town. And you were right when you said it would be almost impossible not to have been noticed after what happened with Sir Randolph in the park. That in itself was enough to set tongues to wagging for months.”
“From what you told me about it, I wish I had been there. It all sounded so bizarre.”
Susannah headed toward the drawing room with Mrs. Princeton following her. “In a way, it was. The marquis is certain of Sir Randolph’s innocence and I don’t doubt him, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Miss Prattle. Her brother truly did her a disservice in confronting Sir Randolph in public.”
“I’m sure she hopes she will never have to show her face in public again.”
“That would be my guess, too,” Susannah said thoughtfully, having some knowledge of what the woman must be going through.
“It looks as though you also had two notes delivered while we were out. They are probably invitations. Should I open them for you?”
“Let me see.” Susannah stepped closer to Mrs. Princeton.
“Look here, one is obviously from an ill-mannered boor. It is addressed simply to Susannah. That is shameful. Who would dare be so informal to a duchess?”
Race?
“Should we just throw it away without opening it?”
Susannah’s chest tightened. “No, of course not. I will see who it’s from.”
Mrs. Princeton gave her the letters. The first one was properly addressed to her as the Dowager Duchess of Blooming, as her title demanded, and the second a bold, black script that simply said Susannah.
It had to be from the marquis.
Not wanting Mrs. Princeton to think she was eager, Susannah slowly opened the formal invitation first and scanned the words. “It’s from the Duchess of Blakewell. She’s inviting me for tea tomorrow afternoon.”
Mrs. Princeton smiled. “The wife of Lord Raceworth’s cousin, how very nice of her.”
“And expected. No doubt Lord Raceworth told his cousin, the duke, and his duchess that I am in London, and now she feels obliged to invite me for tea.”
“And well she should. Would you like me to put this on your calendar and send her a message that you will be delighted to attend?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Princeton, I won’t be going.”
Mrs. Princeton’s bushy gray eyebrows rose. “Oh. I don’t understand. A duchess has asked you for tea. It’s only polite to accept.”
Susannah felt no regrets about declining. She hadn’t come to London to once again become embroiled in Society with its strict rules. “She will understand that since I’ve so recently arrived in Town, I’m not accepting many invitations right now. Make the decline very nice, and be sure to thank her for her kind offer.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Clearly her companion was disappointed by Susannah’s answer, but she said nothing else. Susannah stepped away from Mrs. Princeton and willed her fingers not to tremble with expectancy as she carefully unfolded the second note. It read:
I want to see you.
Race
That was all? He was incredibly presumptuous and brazen, and for some reason she couldn’t fathom, it thrilled her.
I want to see you. Not when, not how, not where, not what for. But he wanted to see her. For some silly reason, her hopes soared.
Suddenly Susannah smiled and then laughed softly.
“What is it, Your Grace?” Mrs. Princeton asked anxiously, taking a step closer to her. “Is it anything you can share?”
Susannah stepped back and folded the paper. She recognized the gleam in the woman’s eyes. Mrs. Princeton wanted it to be from a gentleman.
“Only that this is not an invitation, and you do not need to write an answer for me. I think I will go up to my room and rest before dinner is served.” She took in a deep, satisfying breath.
Mrs. Princeton’s soft brown eyes twinkled, and Susannah knew she hadn’t fooled the woman for an instant. Susannah was sure her companion assumed the note was from Race.
“Would you have Cook bring me up a cup of tea?”
“Right away, Your Grace.”
Susannah climbed the stairs with a spring to her steps. She held up the hem of her dress with one hand and the note from Lord Raceworth to her chest with the other. She hurried into her room and closed the door behind her. She walked over to the window, dropping the newsprint on her bedside table as she passed, and looked out at the marquis’s grounds and the back of his house. She didn’t understand it but she felt close to him when she looked at his home. Getting that note from him made her feel like a young, carefree miss again, and that was a heavenly feeling.
The window was open, and Susannah inhaled deeply and took in the fresh scent of the late afternoon. It had rained earlier in the day, but now it was gloriously beautiful. The sky was clear and bright, littered with patches of wispy white clouds that appeared as thin as gossamer, slowly sailing across the blue. The gentle breeze that wafted across her cheeks was almost warm. S
unshine had already dried the rain off the grass, shrubs, and flowers in Lord Raceworth’s magnificent garden, leaving them washed clean to show their vibrant spring colors.
Susannah closed her eyes and remembered Race’s kiss for the hundredth time. The touch of his lips against hers had been firm, possessive, and inviting, but oh so brief. She had tingled on the top of her head, low in her stomach, and even in her toes. An eager wanting for more sizzled deep inside her.
His kiss earlier in the week had surprised her, thrilled her, and troubled her. What was she to do? She didn’t want to be enamored of him, which was not in her plans, but she was. He seemed to make it easy for her to like him, enjoy him. He had been so handsome when he came to her house a couple of days ago in such a cavalier fashion. He’d told her he would prove to her just how attracted he was to her, and he had by giving her that quick kiss on the street where anyone who happened to be passing by could have seen him.
That kiss and now this unconventional and quite scandalous note proved he cared nothing for her title and not much about Society’s rules, either. That fascinated her.
All he had written was that he wanted to see her. Just the thought of that made her tremble with expectancy, and she didn’t want to lose that feeling.
Foolish as it was, she wanted to see him again, too.
Desperately.
But why?
The last time she had felt this way about a handsome young man, he had broken her heart. Race had already made it clear she was going to have to fight him every step of the way for her grandmother’s necklace. How could she afford to get any more entranced with him than she already was?
Susannah was a widow, not an innocent. She knew what a man’s touch felt like—one man she had thought she loved and one she hadn’t.
It pained her to admit, even to herself, that she hadn’t loved her husband. She would have liked to. She had respected him immensely. He was good to her and had never said a sharp word to her. But there was never any passion between them.
Now after twelve years, there was once again a man who had caught her eye, a man who created yearnings inside her too powerful to deny. Was she strong enough to enjoy the marquis’s unconventional attention and fight him for the pearls at the same time?
Susannah pored over his note again. She felt the stirrings of desire low in her abdomen. He was a clever man. He purposely wanted to leave her questioning what his note really meant. Did he want her to respond to him in some way? It hardly mattered if he did. She wouldn’t. Race was obviously a master at seduction, because he had made progress where no other man had in a dozen years.
Should she deny herself his attention and go back to her celibate life in Chapel Gate? Live with the memory that she had wanted to spend time with him, laugh with him, kiss him, touch him, but didn’t? Or would she go back home and live with the memories that she had wanted all those things, and the marquis had fulfilled her every desire and more?
Susannah looked at his house again and remembered the reason she was in London. The Talbot pearls. She had to come up with another plan to get them, since it was obvious he had no interest in or intention of looking at the records from her family that detailed the purchase of the pearls and their theft.
She’d had some hope of his looking at the documents as long as he didn’t know her name. As she continued to stare at the back of his house, she laughed to herself. But no, she ruined that chance. One little kiss, and she had blabbed her name as quickly as if she’d been a school girl hoping to get praises for learning her lesson.
Susannah believed the marquis to be a good man, an honest man, and loyal to a fault, as evidenced by how he stood up for Sir Randolph in the park. If she could just get him to look at the documents, she was sure he would see they were not falsified. She had to believe he wouldn’t want to keep the pearls once he was convinced they had been stolen from her family.
A thought struck her. Maybe that was why he wouldn’t look at her evidence. If he did, and he believed it to be true, his honor would demand that he must turn them over to her. She could go only on the way she would feel if their roles were reversed. She would never want to keep anything that had been stolen from another person, no matter the monetary or sentimental value of the item.
Perhaps now was the time for her to contact a solicitor and have him contact Race or his solicitor about the documents. That was an idea that had merit, but her mother had been convinced Susannah could handle it by herself. Susannah was beginning to doubt that. If Race’s solicitor was convinced of their authenticity, perhaps he could assure Race of the validity of her family’s ownership.
She half laughed again and turned away from the window. It was amazing how easily and quickly she’d come to think of him as Race. Why had his note simply said “I want to see you” with no specific time or date? No doubt his only motive was to keep her guessing about his interest in her. And if that’s what he’d wanted, it had worked.
With a smile on her lips, she walked over to her dressing table and opened her jewelry case and carefully tucked the note from Race under one of the velvet folds.
He probably wouldn’t be happy if she had someone contact his solicitor, but she wouldn’t spend any time worrying about that. As desirable as he was, she wanted him to know that when it came to the pearls, she meant business and she wasn’t about to give up.
Susannah turned away from the window, and her gaze lighted on the newsprint. She picked it up and turned to the page with Lord Truefitt’s column. She scanned the article and found what she was looking for. Lord Truefitt was eager to learn the identity of the lovely lady who was seen in Hyde Park with the dashing Marquis of Raceworth.
Susannah smiled. London Society hadn’t changed one bit in the twelve years she’d been gone.
* * *
Race strode through the front door of the Harbor Lights Club, taking off his cloak. He handed off his hat and gloves to a servant and headed straight for the taproom, nodding to some gentlemen he knew along the way but not stopping to chat. Gibby had never shown up at Race’s house after the debacle in the park with Prattle, and now two days later, Race was still having a devil of a time finding the man.
Race had been to his house twice, the clubs, and searched several of the parties the past two nights, trying to locate him, but the whipster always seemed to be one step ahead of him. Race hadn’t made it home until almost dawn and had ended up sleeping longer than he’d intended.
Already this afternoon, Race had checked Gibby’s home, White’s, and the Rusty Nail. Now, here he was at Harbor Lights again at the end of the day. If Gib wasn’t inside, Race wouldn’t know where else to look. He stopped at the entrance of the taproom and saw the old fellow sitting at his favorite table by the window, an empty plate in front of him. A slice of late afternoon sunshine fell across his face, heightening his ruddy cheeks.
Just looking at him enjoying the sights outside the window curbed Race’s annoyance at having to search for him. Maybe Gibby didn’t try to get himself into one mishap after another, but it sure seemed that way sometimes, and it had especially seemed that way with Prattle and the pugilism match. This had to be the most outrageous of all the things with which he had become involved over the years.
Taking a deep breath, Race walked over and pulled out the chair opposite Gibby and sat down without bothering to speak.
“You don’t look so well, Race. Something wrong?”
Race harrumphed, leaned back, and folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t act as if you are blameless in the reason behind my ill temper.”
“All right, I won’t,” he offered innocently, searching Race’s face as if he didn’t understand his attitude.
Race uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “I’m worried about you. Damnation, Gib, you had me dreaming that you were getting pummeled by a rotund, balding man named Prattle while his spinster sister stood by and laughed.
So you’re damned right something is wrong with me.”
“Hell’s bells, Race.” Gibby laughed good-naturedly. “I didn’t know you were given to nightmares. You need something to put you in a better disposition. What are you drinking?”
“Something strong,” he muttered, trying to hold on to his annoyance, but with Gibby, that was a hard thing to do. He was just so damned likable.
Race looked down and saw a glass in front of Gibby that looked like it had milk in it. It must be some new concoction the club had come up with. “What are you drinking?”
“Milk.”
Race couldn’t think of any drink that would be good in milk except a very sweet, very strong liqueur. Given his bad humor, that would work for him.
“I’ll have whatever it is you are drinking.”
Gibby motioned to the server, pointed to his glass, and then held up two fingers.
“Now, tell me why you didn’t inform me the Duchess of Blooming was after your grandmother’s pearls? I thought you two were just out for an afternoon stroll.”
Race was taken aback by Gibby’s terse question. And was that anger he saw in Gib’s dark brown eyes?
“We were just out for a stroll until we met you, and I couldn’t very well introduce her to you as the duchess who wants my inheritance from Grandmother, now could I?”
“No, but you could have told me about her when you told Morgan and Blake. Why am I always the last one to know what goes on in this family?”
Race felt his own ire rise again. “What I’d like to know is why everyone in this family is suddenly feeling left out if they don’t know everything about my affairs before I know it?”
“Well, I do feel left out,” Gib said. “I don’t like being the last one to know what is going on with you three guardian fools.”
Something told Race this conversation was going the same route as when Blake found out he hadn’t been told about the duchess and her quest for Lady Elder’s pearls. Race hadn’t come to talk about that. He wanted to discuss Gibby’s outrageous stunt in Hyde Park.
“Listen, Gib,” Race said, trying to stay calm. “I’m not any more concerned about the duchess than I was about Prinny’s representative, the one-armed antiquities dealer, or that arrogant buccaneer who’s trying to worm his way into every titled man’s home in London. In fact, I’m probably not as worried about her as I should be about the other three.”