“I daresay I thought he was,” she said. “I may be plain of feature, but I’m not hideous.”
“You’re not plain.”
“You’re kind to say so.”
But she didn’t believe him. He found that interesting. “If you’re discussing children with the arse, then I assume he was in serious pursuit.”
“He was. However, when I declined his proposal of marriage, he warned me that I would live out my life as a spinster. To which I answered I’d rather be a spinster than his wife. Obviously, I’ve not mastered the genteel art of flirtation.”
Maybe not, but still he was finding himself quite fascinated by her. He liked that there was no artifice to her. She was honest in a way he wasn’t certain he’d ever before encountered in a woman. It was refreshing. Challenging. He didn’t know what to expect from her. “You don’t look old enough to be labeled a spinster.”
“Well, I am. I doubt I’ll go to many balls this Season.”
“Then I’m grateful I had the opportunity to dance with you tonight.”
“I imagine Lady Hyacinth was sorry you abandoned her.”
“Her brother showed up two winks after you left, and he escorted her away.” Which he realized, as the words left his mouth, was insulting to her, especially as he saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes before she glanced up at the orchestra in the balcony. “But I would have left her anyway,” he added hastily, drawing her attention back to him. “I don’t suffer the young gladly. Perhaps because I grew up so quickly.”
“I know it’s been years, but I’m sorry you lost your parents. I can’t imagine the devastation I will experience when mine are gone.”
“I still mourn them. It’s an odd thing to have been without them for all but eight years of my life. There are aspects to them that I barely remember, and some things are so sharp, so clear that it’s as though I were with them yesterday. But it doesn’t sadden me to speak of them, so you needn’t worry there.”
“Is it true what they say about the marquess?”
“That’s he’s mad?”
She nodded.
“Quite.”
HE said it so simply. Without prejudice or fear or condemnation.
“That must have been incredibly difficult,” Minerva said.
“Not particularly. He wasn’t cruel. We didn’t always have his attention, but we had each other, so we didn’t mind. I think he simply broke when his wife died.”
“He loved her that much,” she stated in awe although she suspected either of her parents might react in much the same way when one of them died. She didn’t want to contemplate it.
“I believe he did,” Ashebury said.
“Did it make you want to find a love such as that?”
“On the contrary. It has made me determined to avoid it.”
Then why was he holding her close, gliding her around the room so effortlessly? Lust perhaps. She nearly laughed out loud. When had any man lusted after her?
Last night perhaps, just a bit. His kiss had certainly implied a modicum of desire.
He lowered his gaze to her lips, and they tingled as though they had the power to recall the press of his mouth to hers, the silkiness of his tongue as he outlined them. He had such a lovely mouth. Wide and full, shaped for sin, skilled enough to make a woman lose her head. She suspected a countless number had. She’d almost been included in the group.
With a bit of alarm, she realized that his gaze had drifted lower, and he appeared to be studying the shape of her jawline. He was a man who appreciated strong, solid lines. Would he recognize hers? How mortifying if her square chin gave her away.
But then his eyes came back to hers and he seemed none the wiser although she could have sworn he wore the same expression of desire as the lion. What fanciful thoughts.
The music drifted into silence. They stopped moving, but he didn’t release his hold on her.
“I can hardly countenance that I’ve never really spoken with you before today,” he said.
“You’ve never lacked for fawning women.”
“You don’t fawn, do you, Miss Dodger?”
“I’ve never known a man worth fawning over.” She released a light laugh. “Perhaps that’s the reason I’m a spinster.”
“Or perhaps it is simply that men are idiots.”
“That goes without saying, doesn’t it?”
He chuckled low. “I should be insulted.”
“But you’re not.”
“No.” He skimmed his gloved finger along her jaw, and she wished like the very devil that no cloth separated his skin from hers.
Oh, what a fool she was to be drawn to him as easily as every other lady in London. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for the dance, but I must take my leave. It’s been a rather long evening.”
“Will you be here tomorrow?”
Her heart fluttered at the question, at the possibility of his interest. “No, I have somewhere else to be.”
“Perhaps you won’t avoid all the balls this Season, and we’ll have another dance sometime.”
“Perhaps. Good night, Your Grace.”
Bringing her hand to his lips, he held her gaze. “Good night, Miss Dodger.”
Then, while her knees still had the strength to support her, she strolled away as calmly as possible, but all the while she seemed only capable of seeing herself spread out on a bed being photographed by him.
AFTER Miss Dodger left, the allure of the Dragons faded. Ashe meandered aimlessly around the gaming floor for the better part of a half hour before finally making his way to the gentlemen’s private salon and settling in a chair near the fire. He’d been there for less than a minute before Thomas brought him two fingers of scotch. Ashe didn’t recognize the footman, but in this room, they all went by Thomas—saved the members having to bother with learning names. And each member’s drinking preference was known, no doubt noted by the head footman. Taking a leisurely swallow of extremely fine spirit, Ashe gave his thoughts leave to drift back to Miss Dodger.
Her verbena scent still wafted around him. If she wasn’t Lady V, he’d eat his hat in Trafalgar Square. He knew her lines, had wrapped his fingers about her delicate ankle, could still feel the impression of her small foot on his thigh. But it was more than what he knew of her from last night that held him enthralled at that moment. It was what he’d learned of her this evening.
Dancing with her had its charms. Talking with her had even more. He found himself drawn to her in ways he’d never been drawn to another.
“Miss Minerva Dodger has the most unattractive mouth in London.” The somewhat slurred announcement was met with murmurs of agreement. Ashe slowly turned his head to a grouping of chairs occupied by several gents who, based on the flush on the faces of the ones he could see, were well into their cups. Unattractive mouth? He didn’t know if he’d seen one more attractive. Her perfect, bow-shaped lips were plump, full. He envisioned them as they’d been last night, outlined by the blasted mask, the way they had greeted his when he’d settled his mouth over them, the manner in which they’d parted on a sigh—
“I told you that she wouldn’t accept your suit, Sheridan,” Lord Tottenham said. “Now pay up our wager.”
“Bugger off, Tottenham. I’m good for it. But blast the woman for the impudent views that spew off her tongue.”
So it wasn’t the shape of those luscious lips that Sheridan found unattractive but the words she spoke. Ashe couldn’t agree with him there either, couldn’t think of another woman who carried on a more interesting conversation. He recalled her steadfast resolve that the chimpanzees were in love. For all her straightforwardness, she also possessed softness, small flights of fancy.
“Did you know the girl had the audacity to tell me we weren’t suited?” Sheridan asked.
Ashe almost shouted, “Bravo for her!” He couldn’t envision her with the arrogant toad. They’d have both been miserable. Then he thought of Sheridan crawling into bed with her, and he had to set his tumble
r aside before he cracked the glass as a result of the distasteful image that caused everything within him to tighten.
The footman was suddenly at his side, refilling the tumbler. When the young man stepped back, Ashe called quietly to him. “Thomas?”
When he looked back, Ashe tapped the glass. Thomas poured more. Ashe tapped it again. “All the way to the top, lad.”
“She would have been a countess, much better than she deserves with her father being who he is.”
Silence, thick and heavy, greeted that remark. People who wished to live long and healthy lives didn’t disparage Jack Dodger, particularly in the gaming hell that had once belonged to him. Sheridan wasn’t sharp enough for Miss Dodger. Ashe’s respect for her went up a notch. Many women cared only for the title. It seemed Miss Dodger cared for more.
“Wouldn’t have mattered who her father is,” Sheridan mumbled into the silence. “She hasn’t a docile bone in her body. No one will have her. She’s practically on the shelf, should have been begging for my attention, the little chit.”
“Don’t take it personally, Sheridan,” Lord Whittaker said. “She denied us all a chance at her dowry. She wants love.”
“She’s not going to find that now, is she, the little termagant? Why would any man want to be saddled with a woman who spouts her own view on matters rather than agreeing with his? Makes her deuced irritating.”
“You have the right of it there,” Tottenham said. “When I called on her, she dared to disagree with every opinion I uttered. Wed her, bed her, ship her off to the country. That’s what I say. That’s the only way a gentleman will have any peace if he takes her to wife.”
Ashe stood—
“I’ve never known a more disagreeable wench,” Sheridan said.
—grabbed his glass from the table—
“Will serve her right to find herself an old maid.”
—took five long strides to reach the gathered men.
“Her dowry be damned.”
“It’s an impressive dowry,” Whittaker said.
“She, however, is not impressive in the least,” Sheridan said. “Not a beauty. And as I said, when she opens that mouth—”
Ashe tossed his full glass of scotch onto Sheridan’s ugly mug. The man came up out of his chair, sputtering and glaring. “What the devil, Ashebury?”
“Apologies, my lord. I seem to have stumbled.” A footman discreetly removed the glass from Ashe’s clutched fingers. “If you should disparage Miss Dodger any further, I fear you’ll find me stumbling again, only this time I’ll be leading with my fist.”
“Why the bloody hell do you care? The little chit—”
His fist it was. Straight to Sheridan’s jaw. The man’s head snapped back, his body following as he staggered and dropped to the floor. Stepping forward, Ashe towered over him. “The lady.”
His hand cradling his jaw, Sheridan glared at him. “She is no lady. Her father bears no title.”
“Be that as it may, she comports herself as a lady while you cannot claim to comport yourself as a gentleman. Rather, you’re acting like a gossipy washerwoman. Show some dignity, man, and keep your failures to yourself.”
Ashe spun on his heel and strode from the room. He couldn’t claim to know why he’d reacted as viscerally as he had. Although if Lady V were in fact Miss Dodger, he was gaining an understanding as to her reasons for visiting the Nightingale, especially if she was dealing with such pomposity. Perhaps he’d grown angry because he’d felt as though Sheridan were disparaging Ashe’s judgment.
While dancing with Miss Dodger, he’d almost lured her into the shadows, drawn her into a kiss, but he wasn’t certain he’d have the strength to stop there. On the other hand, if he was correct about her identity, she might not have wanted him to. She might have welcomed them going much further, might have gone home with him.
Some adventurer he was, not to have at least asked. But his gut told him that it wouldn’t have gone as he fantasized. It was too soon. The lady wasn’t ready for more.
But with a little coaxing, she would be. And he who had sworn that he would only ever have one virgin in his life—the woman he married—now conceded that perhaps he’d been a bit premature with that vow.
Chapter 8
“YOU’RE quiet this morning.”
Lowering her newspaper, Minerva looked at her father sitting near her, holding his own paper. From the moment his children had mastered reading, he’d insisted that the butler press an edition of the Times for each of them and set it at their place at the table, so it was readily available to them when they came down for breakfast. They needed to know what was happening in the world. Not the weather or the latest fashions. Rather, they were expected to discuss what would have an impact on business, the economy, and the nation. That endeavor required being informed to the fullest. He might have conquered the darker side of London, but he was determined his children would thrive and meet with success away from it.
“I’m reading the paper,” she answered. His cardinal rule was no talking while reading.
“No, you’re not.”
Nothing escaped his notice. It was the reason Jack Dodger had survived the streets, built a successful business, and was rumored to be the wealthiest man in all of England. Not that he would confirm or deny the speculation. Her father was also a man who relished secrets, had a good many of his own, and excelled at holding them well.
Now she had one of her own that quite possibly rivaled the inappropriateness of his. Oh, she had others. Pilfering his cigars and liquor. Using profanity—but never in front of her parents. But those secrets seemed childish and silly compared with the latest one. The one that had kept her awake most of the night thinking about Ashebury, wondering what would happen if she dared show up at the Nightingale again. If she crossed paths with Ashebury there again, she couldn’t back out a second time. Her pride more than anything wouldn’t allow it.
Paper crinkled as her father folded up his newspaper and set it aside. “So what’s troubling you?”
His dogged determination, which had resulted in his achievements, seldom allowed his children to escape his scrutiny when he suspected they were hiding something. While it was an admirable trait, when it was directed her way, she didn’t much like it. Still, she knew he wouldn’t give up until he had his answer. “I think it’s time to admit I’m not the sort men marry.”
His unwavering gaze on her, he sat still and silent for a moment. “Should I increase the amount of your dowry?”
She laughed lightly. “Dear God, no, Papa. Mine’s large enough to attract fortune hunters from across the pond. No, it’s more to do with me. I’m not the type with whom men can fall madly in love. They don’t find me very biddable.”
“If they don’t appreciate you, they can rot. Don’t change for a single one of them.”
He would defend his children to the death. She loved him for it. “I wasn’t planning to. Here’s an example, though. Last night at the Dragons, I challenged Lady Hyacinth to a bout in the boxing ring.”
He arched a thick eyebrow, gave a curt nod of approval. “You’d draw a crowd. What were you going to charge for admittance into the room?”
Any other man might have been mocking her, but she knew him well enough to know he was serious. He never turned down an opportunity to add money to his coffers. Any other father might have been appalled. But he valued strength, courage, and fortitude. “I had no plans to charge anything. It was an empty dare that I wasn’t going to see through. She said something unkind, and I reacted very poorly.”
“I’ll have a chat with her father this morning. She’ll be apologizing this afternoon.”
His influence was such that any confrontation yielded results. Terrified some when Jack Dodger showed up at their door. “That’s not necessary. I handled it.”
He studied her for a moment, no doubt trying to discern if it was handled to his satisfaction. “What did she say?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Something about t
he reason I’m a spinster. It’s not important. What matters is that ladies don’t engage in fisticuffs, and yet I tossed the possibility out there as though it were perfectly normal and acceptable. I come across as being masculine, a hoyden, instead of dainty and feminine.”
“You come across as a woman with the wherewithal to take care of herself.”
“Not everyone values that in a lady.”
“You don’t want someone who doesn’t.”
“And therein lies the problem. I don’t think a man who can accept me as I am exists. At least not among the aristocracy. Not where proper behavior is so regarded, and ladies are expected to yield to their husbands on all matters. I haven’t a talent for yielding.”
“Then don’t marry among the aristocracy.”
Until this moment, marrying a commoner wasn’t something she’d even considered. “But wouldn’t you be disappointed? It would be a feather in your cap—a son of the streets whose daughter marries nobility.”
“I’ve never much fancied feathers.” He gave her an understanding smile. “Marry a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker. Don’t marry at all. I don’t care. Neither does your mother. All we’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy.”
If she weren’t so practical, she’d weep. For all his gruffness, there were times when he said things that below the surface were incredibly sentimental and sweet. “And if my happiness rests in doing something I ought not?”
“Like stealing my cigars?”
Her eyes widened. “You knew?”
“I can count inventory.”
“Could have been my brothers.”
He gave her a stern look. “They’ve never been as daring as you.”
That was true enough, but then they’d never wrapped their father around their little finger either. She could get away with a good deal more, and they were smart enough to recognize it. “All right then, I’ve been caught. But back to my original concern, about doing something I ought not.”
“Your mother ought not to have married me.” He picked up his newspaper, shook it out, buried his nose in it. “That didn’t turn out so badly.”
Falling Into Bed with a Duke (Hellions of Havisham) Page 10