The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel

by Jennifer McQuiston

  “I really don’t understand this sudden change in mood,” Eleanor mused, shaking her head. “One would think after what happened, you’d not be so eager to go out and face the censure of Society. They will not be kind, Mary. Cruelty is the specialty of the ton.” She cupped a hand absently around her abdomen. “You must trust me on this.”

  “I know,” Mary said, more sure than ever that her sister’s whirlwind October wedding had been an event born of necessity rather than marital enthusiasm. “And I know this request seems a bit out of character for me.” She thought of her earlier fears for her trip to London, how she had written in her diary about being snubbed by the popular crowd or whispered about behind lace fans.

  Those worries seemed almost amusing now.

  Certainly nothing to fear.

  “I want to do this, Eleanor,” she said softly. “The worst has already happened to me, and I survived. And now I can go out and enjoy myself, because I no longer need to worry about what people may think.”

  “But . . . aren’t you afraid?” Eleanor asked. “Of what they might say to you?”

  Mary hesitated. How to explain to her sister that the events of the past week had been some of the most exhilarating of her life? That the thought of stepping out into a crowded room and speaking with strangers no longer made her want to curl into a ball? “No, I am not afraid. It is freeing, somehow, to have the veil of propriety ripped so cleanly away.” She offered her sister a conciliatory smile. “And you did invite me here to London for this very purpose. To find that spark you claim has gone missing from my life.”

  “Yes, well, I must admit, you do seem more cheerful of late,” Eleanor admitted grudgingly. “More like the old you.” A sigh escaped her lips. “I suppose a small outing might not be the most terrible thing in the world.” She glanced down at the silver tray lying beside her on the bed, her fingers sorting through the tangle of letters and correspondence. “Unfortunately, the invitations haven’t exactly been flooding in.” She looked up, her eyes assessing. “Although . . . perhaps you might consider a visit to the new opera house? Ashington purchased a box for me as a wedding present, you know. He really is the dearest man.”

  Mary shook her head, though in her opinion, the “dearest man” in question probably ought to be making his way back to London soon. “No, not the opera.” Attending an opera would only make her think of him, drat his rogue’s heart. Besides the question of what else she might be forced to watch beyond the performance on the stage, an outing like that required one to sit in the darkness and be silent, which wouldn’t suit her needs at all.

  “What about a dinner party?” Mary asked. Although, that idea didn’t quite fit either. Dinner parties limited one’s conversation to those seated in close proximity. She needed to be able to speak to dozens of people.

  All of them dukes.

  Eleanor eyed the tray again. “I am afraid it doesn’t look promising.”

  Mary swallowed a groan of frustration. She had offered to help Eleanor answer her correspondence this afternoon—a task on which her sister was helplessly behind—with the intention of wielding an eye for prospects. The thought of what she was planning made her stomach twist in nervous knots, but those knots were neither so tight nor complicated she would be dissuaded from her course. Surely the perfect invitation was lurking somewhere in that pile of correspondence. “What about something with dancing?” she asked.

  Eleanor looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. “You? Dancing? You can’t be serious.”

  Mary shrugged. “You yourself pointed out that I never had a proper debut. And I thought . . . while I am here in London . . . I may as well . . . dance,” she finished, a bit lamely.

  “You never had a debut because you refused the Season Patrick and Julianne provided us,” Eleanor pointed out. “On account of—let me see if I can recall the exact words you used at the time—that horrid dancing. You said you’d rather stay home and read a book.”

  Mary’s cheeks heated. Yes, she could recall saying those very words, and how her family had wrung their hands over her refusal to do the usual thing. But thanks to their mother’s passing and the requisite period of mourning, she and Eleanor had been older than was ideal by the time their come-out had been arranged. Old enough, in fact, that she had been of age by the time the opportunity arose. Which meant Mary had been able to refuse to participate, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

  “Well, perhaps I have had a change of heart, now that I’ve seen something of London,” she murmured. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to dance: they’d both been forced to learn a variety of dances through the years. But Eleanor was the only one who had actually used the skills they had practiced. To Mary, the idea of being held by a stranger on a dance floor made her feel . . . prickly. Being forced to speak to someone, the conversation stilted and false, everyone’s eyes on you . . . she couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do less.

  Except nothing. She couldn’t do nothing.

  She leaned over the bed and plucked a letter from her sister’s tray. This particular invitation, with its bold wax seal and beautiful looped penmanship, had definite possibilities. Even the weight of the paper screamed “duke”. “What about this one?” She scanned the contents quickly and then handed the invitation to her sister. “It is for a ball this Saturday.”

  “The Duke of Harrington’s engagement ball?” Eleanor asked, her voice going a few notes higher. “No, I don’t think that is a good idea at all.”

  “Why not?” In fact, it was perfect. Where else would a duke be seen but at another duke’s ball? Goodness, the traitor might even be the Duke of Harrington.

  Excitement coursed through her.

  “The duke will be announcing his engagement to the daughter of an Italian countess, and everyone will want to be there for their first glimpse of her.” Eleanor sounded worried now. “It will be a frightful crush.”

  Mary nodded, hoping she looked convincing. “Yes. With dancing.” She smiled bravely, though in truth, the thought of dancing with strangers was a bit nauseating. But now was not the time to turn herself over to timidity. There was too much at stake here to let hesitancy dictate her actions, the way she had nearly her entire life. And her ears perked up, homing in on her sister’s words. The duke was marrying the daughter of an Italian countess?

  Thoughts of Orsinian plots swirled in her head.

  Eleanor’s forehead wrinkled with worry. “Mary, I don’t think this is a good idea at all. Besides your disastrous visit to the literary salon and that one unfortunate outing to church, you’ve not even set foot outside the house while you’ve been here in London. You’ve not gone walking in Hyde Park once, nor asked to go shopping on Bond Street. For heaven’s sake, I’ve never even seen you take a turn about the garden. And now you are proposing going to a ball?” Her voice turned tart. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Mary worried her lower lip. Perhaps she had lost her mind. She considered, for a moment, trying once more to confess the real reason she was doing this, trying to explain to Eleanor the details of the conversation she had overheard in the library at the literary salon. But the words died on her tongue before they could be formed.

  She remembered all too well how her sister had panicked the last time she’d tried to broach the topic of the plot, the complete and utter disbelief, the firm admonishment to stop letting her imagination run wild. Eleanor looked more exhausted with each passing day, and at the moment her forehead was puckered with worry.

  And that was simply from the thought that Mary wanted to attend a ball.

  Imagine how much strain Eleanor would feel if she discerned the real reason for her sister’s sudden new interest in dancing? She couldn’t tell her sister.

  Not now, with so much at stake.

  She plucked the invitation back from her sister’s hands, then smiled, hoping it looked sincere. “You are right, of course. I don’t know what I was thinking. The scandal sheets, you know. Probably best to let th
e gossip die down first.”

  “It is really for the best.” Eleanor sounded relieved. “Maybe next month, things might be more settled, and you could venture out with less worry.”

  Mary brandished her pen. “Shall I pen a note expressing our regrets?”

  Though, she was going to do nothing of the sort.

  Eleanor nodded. “Yes. Of course.” She glanced down at her tray, running a hand across the remaining letters. After a pensive moment, she looked back up. “On the matter of regrets . . . have you heard anything more from Mr. Westmore?”

  Mary squirmed as she scribbled her acceptance. Good heavens. The mere mention of the man’s name made her blush like an adolescent school girl, which was a remarkable feat, given that she was six and twenty and hardly besotted with him.

  Or, was she? With nothing more than a rakish smile, he had made her feel as though she was the only person in an entire room. Or a brothel hallway.

  She wanted to see him again with a desperation that shocked her. But the scoundrel was preoccupied with things that had nothing to do with her or the security of the country. She knew this to be true because she watched for him from her window, every dreadful night. He gathered himself up and set off down Grosvenor Square about ten o’clock every evening, just when the lights in Cardwell House were starting to go out.

  And drat the man, he usually didn’t return until morning.

  “No,” she answered, her fingers tightening miserably over the silver pen. “I haven’t heard from him.” And that, of course, was the crux of the whole problem.

  The Duke of Harrington’s engagement ball was the sort of affair designed to bring out the hunting instinct in a man like West.

  Everywhere he looked there were women. Wealthy widows and tittering debutantes, all sad to see the most eligible Duke of Harrington removed from the marriage mart, all seeking solace from their disappointment. Normally, he would be ready to relieve their suffering. Ready to offer a conciliatory kiss or more. But tonight West kept to the periphery of the action, hunting for a different sort of prey. And the women swirling in his line of sight—attractive and available though they may be—didn’t interest him nearly as much as the mouse of a virgin he hoped was sitting safely in her bedroom, reading some obscure novel by lamplight.

  Grant sauntered toward him, a glass of lemonade in each hand. He held one of the glasses out. “You look parched, my friend. I’ve brought you a peace offering, given that you seem to want to have nothing to do with me of late.”

  West’s fingers closed gratefully about the glass. Parched. Yes, that was the perfect word to describe how he felt—at least where Miss Channing was concerned. He felt stripped of sensation, every nerve centered on something he could not have, and should not want. Worse, there was a blurriness to his thoughts and vision that did not bode well for the sort of singular concentration tonight’s hunt required.

  He’d not been sleeping well, and when he did find his bed, more often than not his sleep was plagued by nightmares. In between subtle inquiries about Fenian uprisings and Orsinian plots—delicate conversations to broach anywhere, but especially amidst drunken peers—he’d surreptitiously watched the courtyard garden three doors down from Cardwell House, hoping for some glimpse of her, a small sighting to ease the hopeless itch she’d conjured beneath his skin. He told himself his curiosity was because he wanted to make sure she was safely at home, instead of trying to stir up trouble.

  But he suspected he was lying to himself.

  West took a sip of the lemonade. Choked as it slid fitfully down his throat. “Good God,” he wheezed. “What did you put in it?”

  “Just a little something I had smuggled down from the north. Takes the skin off one’s throat, doesn’t it?” Grant grinned as he pulled his flask from his evening jacket and added more to his own glass. “You seemed a bit . . . distracted tonight. I thought some whisky might help.”

  West gritted his teeth, the taste of lemons and whisky lingering on his lips, sharp and head-spinning—a combination that reminded him too much of the potent Miss Channing. “I don’t need your help.” And he certainly didn’t need more of Grant’s smuggled whisky.

  “Look, are you still miffed because of that business with the betting books?” Grant sighed. “I didn’t actually place the wager you were losing your mind, you know.” He poured another finger of light amber liquid into his glass, until it was more whisky than lemonade. “Although, speaking of wagers . . . you seem to be spending a good deal of time watching the crowd tonight. I would wager you are looking for someone in particular.” His grin was sudden, and the opposite of infectious. “The infamous Miss Channing, perhaps?”

  “Why does it matter?” West’s shoulders tensed.

  “I find myself curious.” Grant shrugged. “You’ve not been acting yourself of late. I would introduce myself to the woman who’s knocked you off your perch and sent you off babbling about assassination plots and the like.”

  “She’s not knocked me anywhere,” West said, feeling cross. “And I am not babbling. Besides, she won’t be here. She prefers libraries to ballrooms, and books over dance cards.”

  But even as he offered this factual statement, his eye pulled to a flash of blue silk. Recognition knifed through him, and his glass hit the floor, shattering to pieces.

  Murmured speculations about his state of inebriation began to run around the room like a surge of electricity, but he could scarcely take the time to worry about it.

  Because his mouse of a virgin wasn’t at home reading some obscure novel by lamplight. No, she had just walked through the ballroom doors, lacking her biddable chaperone and all good sense. He glowered in her direction, watching as she gave her shawl to a footman and revealed the entire trajectory of her sinfully cut dress.

  He wanted to skewer the men who turned to leer at her as she passed.

  Wanted to protect her from the narrow-eyed women who bunched in her wake, whispering behind their poisonous fans.

  For God’s sake, what was Mary doing here? Didn’t she realize that thanks to the gossip rags she was now a walking, talking scandal?

  And where was her usual brown dress, the one that approximated the color of mud on a dull winter’s day? For once, he would have preferred to see her in it. Because unfortunately, tonight she was wearing the blue gown again, the same one that had lured him like a siren that night of the literary salon. It clung to her scant curves as if applied by an artist’s brush, highlighting her slender waist and long, elegant neck. And her hair—God in heaven—her hair was tumbling down the back of her neck like a lover’s caress, the thick tresses shining beneath the gaslights of Harrington’s ballroom.

  Against the sea of coifed elegance, she alone looked ready for a tumble.

  Or to put it another way, she looked close to having already been tumbled.

  And that, of course, sent his thoughts straight there, to that carnal place he’d sworn to avoid where this woman was concerned. She was not for him. She was supposed to be untouchable. Innocence wrapped in steel. Off-limits, to apply a proper military term.

  His limits, however, were stretching to the breaking point.

  “Shall I fetch you another lemonade then?” Grant asked, swiping at the glass shards with his shoe. “Or would you rather just take my flask and bolt it down?”

  “No, thank you.” West was craning his neck now, trying to see what Mary was up to. He felt a frisson of alarm as he watched her approach the Duke of Salisbury and engage the man directly in conversation—a terrible faux paux for anyone, but for a woman so recently featured in the gossip rags, it was another unforgivable nail in her social coffin.

  For Christ’s sake, the woman needed a handler.

  And the parts of her he’d like to personally handle were on too-ready display tonight.

  The aging duke had noticed those lovely, tempting parts, too. His Grace couldn’t quite seem to keep his eyes on Mary’s face, and in spite of the duke’s senility, in spite of Miss Channing’s own in
cautious role in her downfall, West was afraid he was going to embarrass himself tonight defending her unraveling honor.

  Grant’s shoulder nudged into him. “Who is that woman you are ogling?”

  West swore beneath his breath. He hadn’t realized he was staring in such an obvious fashion. “No one of importance.”

  “No one of importance, hmm?” Grant offered him a roguish smile. “Then you won’t mind if I introduce myself?”

  Bugger it all. That was not happening—tonight or any other night, for that matter. There was no telling what Grant might say to her. Or worse, what she might say back.

  “There is no need,” West said tersely. “It is Miss Channing.”

  Grant squinted in her direction. Took a sip directly from his flask. “Oh, ho. I think I am beginning to understand the distraction.”

  “At least one of us does.” Because to West’s mind, understanding had just fled the ballroom. He was supposed to be here with one purpose in mind, but that purpose had disintegrated to little more than dust the moment Mary walked through the door.

  A servant materialized to clean up the mess on the floor, and so West seized the opportunity to extract himself from Grant’s ribbing. “Would you excuse me?” he said, shaking the clinging droplets and bits of glass from his shoe. “I’ve things to do.”

  “Interesting choice of words. Well, have fun with your ‘things.’” Grant waved him on with a grin. “But meet me later, at White’s?”

  West nodded, if only to put an end to his friend’s badgering. As he moved through the crowd, he watched Mary from the corner of his eye. Though he was coming to know the exquisite detail of her face—the way her eyes sparkled when she was excited, the way she lifted her chin when making a point—she nonetheless remained something of an enigma to him. For example, he never would have predicted her showing up here tonight, not in a hundred years. It was becoming a problem, the way she kept him off-kilter. He couldn’t get a proper read on her, and that was damned disconcerting to such a dedicated connoisseur of the female sex.