by Wilma Counts
He gave a mocking laugh. “I cannot say that I blame you, considering he is reputedly mad. I, on the other hand, am in perfect health and in constant threat of being compromised by forward harpies who have no shame and no dignity.”
She made a most convincing display of outrage as she gave a sudden stomp of her foot. “Compromise you? Why . . . I despise you. I despise you more than anyone I have met in my entire life.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
He strolled slowly forward, his blue eyes glittering with a wicked glint. The chit was clearly furious that her ploy had been seen through so easily. It was equally clear she hoped to pass her outrageous behavior off as a mere misunderstanding. Well, he would teach her not to trifle with a gentleman’s reputation.
“Do you skulk in the bedchambers of every gentleman you despise?”
“I came for Byron,” she gritted.
“So you have said.” He halted directly in front of her, reaching out to wrap his arms about her waist and pull her close. “I think it is more likely you came for this. . . .”
She arched backward, but Alexander relentlessly pursued the elusive lips, claiming them in a bold kiss. His plan was to ensure that she never attempted such a dangerous folly again.
Unfortunately, it was a plan that was swiftly forgotten as the soft lips trembled beneath his touch. He had been right, he inanely thought as a delicious heat spread through his body. Her lips were as sweet as a fine liqueur and just as swift to cloud a gentleman’s judgment. His arms tightened as he gently parted her lips with the tip of his tongue.
Delectable . . .
Delectable and utterly irresistible.
The odd realization flared through his mind at the same moment she decided to pull away. But not before the door to the chamber was thrust open and the astonished voice of Mr. Wallace jolted through the air.
“Good God . . .”
Two
For a crazed moment Grace discovered herself lost in the searing kiss. It was nothing at all like she had envisioned a kiss to be. It was not soft or tender. Instead it had been fiercely possessive and it had evoked a sharp pleasure that had tingled from the tip of her head to the toes that had curled in the privacy of her boots.
It had taken the sharp pangs in the region of her heart to bring her to her senses. Not the pangs of Cupid’s arrow, she realized with an absurd flare of relief, but the pang of tiny claws digging through her gown.
Unlike her, Byron had taken instant exception to Mr. Dalford’s outrageous behavior.
Unfortunately, the same moment she pulled back in horror was the same moment a voice had echoed through the room and she had turned her head to view a portly gentleman inspecting her with malicious enjoyment. In the blink of an eye the intruder had whisked shut the door, but not before Grace had felt a chill of horror at his expression.
Clutching the decidedly vexed kitten to her chest she glared at the astonishingly handsome gentleman. She wished to slay him with the furious edge of her tongue. To make him cringe beneath the righteous humiliation that flowed through her rigid body. Instead she stammered like a simpleton.
“How dare you?”
A slender hand raised to shove its way through the raven satin of his hair.
“It seemed a perfect means of teaching you a lesson at the time.” He grimaced. “Now we are certainly in the bumble broth.”
Teaching her a lesson? She shivered as she recalled the heat that had swirled through the pit of her stomach. She had no desire for such lessons. At least not from the gentleman who had tossed her from her own home.
“Why, you arrogant lout! I suppose you presume every maiden in England is desperate to become your wife?”
He merely shrugged. “It is not arrogance. I assure you there is nothing particularly pleasant in being pursued by rabid fortune hunters.”
She steadied her quivering knees. Oh, yes, the poor soul, she inwardly seethed. It must be so difficult to be rich, handsome, and the toast of London.
“And I assure you that there is nothing pleasant about being labeled a liar and then mauled like a common light skirt. I came for Byron and now I intend to leave.”
Surprisingly he firmly moved to block her path to the door. “Oh, no. Not until you tell me who you are.”
Grace momentarily glared at him in silence. It was none of his bloody business who she was. But the realization that she could not very well dislodge a six-foot male from her path made her swallow her pride.
“Miss Honeywell,” she reluctantly confessed.
His brows snapped together. “Do you work for me?”
Her mouth dropped open in outrage. Why the . . .
“Certainly not. I was Mr. Crosswald’s stepdaughter.”
A decidedly satisfying flare of shock rippled over his proud countenance. “Good lord. What are you doing here?”
“I was living here until we were forced to move to a cottage not fit for a pig so you could host your little party.”
He gave a slow shake of his head. “You live on the estate?”
She regarded him as if he were unendurably slow. “Where else would we go, sir?”
Without warning, he abruptly threw his hands in the air. “Well, this is a bloody mess.”
“I fail to see how our inconvenience affects you.”
He possessed the nerve to appear exasperated at her ill fortune.
“I did not even realize you were living at the estate when I decided to come to Kent. I presumed you would return to your former home.”
A hint of color stained her cheeks. “We were forced to sell our home to pay off my father’s debts.”
“Why the devil didn’t Boswan tell me?”
Grace began to slowly suspect that she may have been a bit hasty in laying full blame for their eviction upon this gentleman’s shoulders. He seemed quite sincere in his surprise that they were still in the area. Her lips tightened. Blast, Boswan. She should have suspected his devious hand had somehow been involved.
“Because he has always resented my presence at Chalfried. I have no doubt he was robbing the estate blind until I took over the books. When he realized you were coming he obviously assumed it was a perfect opportunity to have his revenge, although Mr. Crosswald at least ensured we would have the cottage.”
His expression darkened at her words. “Damn.”
If she had hoped for sympathy for her predicament, she was sorely disappointed. “Is that all you can say, Mr. Dalford?”
Her chastisement only caused his frown to deepen. “Do you not realize the mess we are in?”
“What mess?”
“We were seen in my bedchamber in a very intimate embrace.”
Grace abruptly recalled the oddly repellent gentleman who had entered the chamber. “You will simply have to confess your scandalous behavior to your guest. I am certainly innocent.”
“That was no mere guest,” he informed her, his magnificent blue eyes darkening with dislike. “Mr. Wallace is a very nasty rattle who loves nothing more than to spread scandal to whomever will listen. I have no doubt the entire household has already learned that I was seducing a flame-haired, green-eyed minx. Your description is bound to be recognized by the servants and will be the source of village gossip by the end of the day.”
Her heart faltered at his words even as she gave a shake of her head. “That is . . . absurd.”
He moved to tower over her, speaking with slow emphasis. “By the end of the week it will be throughout London and on its way to the Continent.”
No. It could not be. Not even her luck was that ill.
“Once you’ve explained the truth . . .”
He gave a humorless laugh. “Wally has no interest in the truth. He is out to destroy my reputation, and now I have handed him the perfect opportunity on a silver platter. Da . . . Blast the liver-hearted scoundrel.”
“Why would he wish to destroy your reputation?”
“Because I have the ear of the prince and I have a
dvised him strongly against placing certain undesirable gentlemen in key positions in the government. Those gentlemen would pay a great deal to have my position undermined.”
She wished to dismiss his words as grandiose bragging. He would not be the first gentleman to claim to have the ear of the prince. But something in his dark countenance made her stomach twist with dread.
“There is no certainty that I will be recognized.” She unconsciously clutched Byron tighter, only to be rewarded with another stab from those sharp claws. “You could always claim that I was a servant. There seems to be no scandal in seducing a poor maid.”
With a faint shake of his head he reached out to gently untangle the kitten from her tender skin. Annoyingly, Byron curled onto his arm and fell asleep.
“Mr. Wallace will not rest until he has found you again. Hardly a difficult task with your brilliant hair and the fact that you live on the grounds.”
The sense of dread hardened to genuine fear. Heavens above, were things not bad enough? Her poor mother was reduced to a life of penury in a decrepit cottage. Her own future was hardly brimming with glorious promise. The last thing she needed was the further burden of being branded a tart.
“This is all your fault,” she hissed.
“I realize that,” he shocked her by admitting. “What we have to decide is how we are to get out of this deuced dilemma.”
She drew in a deep breath. Why had she come to Chalfried? The traitorous Byron would have found his way back to the cottage. Now, she had not only encountered the gentleman she had sworn to avoid at all cost, but she had been labeled a scheming minx, thoroughly kissed, and now threatened with a scandal that would break any mother’s heart. And all before tea.
“You could return to London,” she suggested hopefully. “Mr. Wallace would never discover who I am.”
“And if one of the servants has already recognized your description?”
“Then I will deny being here.”
“And Boswan will no doubt be just as swift to claim that he saw you enter the house,” he pointed out with cool logic. “What better means of punishing you?”
Botheration. He was right. Boswan had detested her from the moment she had taken an interest in the management of Chalfried. And no wonder, she had eventually discovered. Although he had claimed to have lost several ledgers, it had only taken Grace a few days to realize the steward had been lining his own pocket from Edward’s rents for years. Of course, without the ledgers it had been impossible to make her accusations. Instead she had personally taken charge of the books. And in the process she had gained a very dangerous enemy.
Now she realized he would indeed take great pleasure in marring her reputation. If Wallace did mention that there had been a redheaded wench in Mr. Dalford’s chambers, he would leap at the opportunity to implicate her in a scandal.
“Then what do you suggest?” she demanded. “I have no more desire than you to be the center of gossip.”
He studied her pale features for a long moment, as if coming to a decision. “It appears that we have no choice.”
Grace was quite certain that she did not like the wicked glint that entered his dark blue eyes. “What do you mean?”
“We are too late to halt the gossip, but we can turn it to our advantage.”
“I can hardly see any advantage in having others know I was in your bedchamber,” she retorted with a blush.
“Well, you were impetuous.” He slowly smiled. “Hardly surprising for a maiden in your condition.”
She regarded him warily. “My condition?”
“A woman betrothed to a handsome, charming, and utterly devoted gentleman.”
Feeling unconscionably dense, she gave a slow shake of her head. “I am not engaged.”
“Of course we are, my dear. And beginning today we are going to announce it to anyone who will listen.”
For the first time in her life, Grace deeply regretted the fact that she had never developed the maidenly skill of swooning on cue. It would have been so very befitting for the melodramatic scene.
Instead she regarded Mr. Dalford with wide eyes. Quite clearly he was one sheet short of a full sail.
Three
After pouring himself a generous measure of brandy, Alexander swallowed it in one gulp. He just as swiftly poured himself another shot. He felt no guilt for his unusual consumption of the fiery spirit. Miss Grace Honeywell could drive any gentleman to drink. She had to be the most aggravating minx in all of England.
For heaven’s sake, it had taken him over an hour to convince the stubborn chit that becoming his fiancée was the only solution to their difficulties. An hour during which she had managed to make him feel the lowest excuse for a gentleman that had ever had the misfortune to be born. He had never regretted a kiss more in his life. Even if it had evoked the most astonishing sensations in the pit of his stomach.
Of course, he had to concede that once he had managed to wrench a promise of compliance from Miss Honeywell and sent her and her kitten on their way, he had been suddenly struck by the irony of the situation.
He had come to Chalfried to convince Mr. Wallace that Lady Falwell was not his mistress. What better means of convincing him than to produce a fiancée? One who could be easily disposed of at the proper time?
Determined to turn the exasperating dilemma to his own advantage, Alexander had sought out Rosalind and together they had plotted the best means to proceed. Now he waited in the elegant blue-and-green salon for his prey to arrive.
He did not have to wait long. He had just polished off his second drink when the overpowering scent of citrus cologne warned him that Mr. Wallace had made his entrance.
Turning slowly, he regarded the striped plum coat and absurdly high collar points with an inward shudder. At least the lace was gone, he acknowledged, although the enormous buckles on the dainty slippers were just as ghastly. A puffed up popinjay with few scruples and a talent for being where he was least wanted.
With an effort, Alexander summoned a lazy smile as he poured his guest a brandy and thrust it into his pudgy white fingers. Wallace’s own smile held an edge of lewd enjoyment.
“Well, well, Fox. I must apologize for intruding at such an . . . inopportune moment.”
Alexander waved a dismissive hand. “Think nothing of it, Wally.”
“A lovely wench. Who is she?”
Alexander allowed himself a dramatic pause. “Actually, that is a rather delicate subject.”
Wallace gave a nasty laugh. “Yes, I am sure it is.”
“More brandy?”
“No, thank you. I am all agog with curiosity. Are you going to confess?”
Alexander pretended to consider his request with a faint frown. “Only if you promise not to repeat what I tell you.”
“You have my word.”
Which was no doubt worth as much as the chip of glass he attempted to pass off as a diamond in his stickpin, Alexander acknowledged wryly.
“The young lady you saw in my arms is Miss Honeywell. . . my fiancée.”
There was a choked sound of disbelief. “You must be jesting.”
“Not at all.”
“This is absurd. I have never heard mention of any fiancée.”
“Miss Honeywell has been in mourning for her stepfather. We were forced to keep our arrangement between ourselves until after the New Year.”
The oily smile faltered. “Indeed?”
“Yes.”
“And what was she doing in your chambers?”
Alexander had prepared carefully for the obvious question. “She had decided to surprise me with a miniature she had commissioned from a local artist, but I arrived before she expected and I caught her placing it upon my bed. Rather impetuously, I was overcome at the sight of my beloved after such a length of time apart, and I allowed my feelings to overcome my good sense.”
An ugly expression descended upon the pudgy countenance. “Good God, Fox, you spin a pretty tale, but you cannot expect me to believe su
ch a banbury story?”
An imperial ice descended upon Alexander’s thin features. When he wished, he could be as arrogant and commanding as his distant cousin the czar. He deliberately glared down his long nose at the much shorter gentleman. “Frankly, Mr. Wallace, I am supremely indifferent to what you may or may not believe. You asked for the truth and that is what I have given you.”
For a moment Wallace wavered beneath the intimidating glare; then clearly remembering he stood to gain a great deal if he could destroy his host, he stiffened his spine and withdrew a lace handkerchief to lightly dab at his large nose.
“That woman is no more your fiancée than I am the prince regent,” he scoffed.
They regarded each other in silence for long moments, like two fencers waiting for their opponent to reveal an opening. Then, on cue, Lady Falwell swept into the room, appearing inordinately lovely in a buttercup silk gown with an amber necklace draped about her neck.
“Am I intruding?” she demanded.
A sly smile suddenly curved the thick lips. “Not at all, my lady. Fox was just telling me of his mysterious fiancée.”
Alexander grimaced. So much for Wallace’s pledge of silence. He said nothing, however, as Rosalind artfully widened her eyes with shock.
“You told him of Miss Honeywell?” she demanded of Alexander. “I thought your engagement was still a secret?”
Wallace was obviously taken aback. “You knew?”
“Of course, although Lord Falwell and I were sworn to secrecy.”
“As was Wally,” Alexander pointed out in sardonic tones.
Like any rat, Wallace was wise enough to realize when it was time to scuttle back to the shadows. With a forced laugh he raised his glass in a mocking toast. “It seems congratulations are in order.”
The next morning Alexander rose at a most unreasonable hour to ensure he would discover Miss Honeywell at home.
Of course the minx had already disappeared to the local village. Determined to speak with her before Wallace could discover her whereabouts, Alexander had nevertheless lingered long enough to become better acquainted with her most charming mother. And long enough to realize that she had not been exaggerating when she had claimed that their cottage was not fit for a pig.