All's Fair in Love and Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  With a final curse under his breath, he grabbed his jacket and strode through the saloon, right at Spence. “Fancy a round?” He hoped the man would say yes. A good sparring bout was invigorating, and the thought of punching him had grown appealing.

  Slender and elegant, Spence wrinkled his nose. “Of course not. I have an eye for choosing winning fighters, not for throwing punches myself.”

  “Odd place to hang about, then, given there’s no fight going on.”

  The other man smirked. “How are you getting on with our little wager?”

  Douglas put on his jacket and took his hat from the boy who ran after him. “The one about the Ascot? You may take Grafton’s filly after her performance at The Oaks. I wouldn’t stake two shillings on her.”

  “Not the racing wager,” said Spence, still smiling. “The Wilde wager.”

  Douglas tugged on his gloves as he went out the door. “I managed to find a copy of the story you mentioned. Don’t you think it’s strange that Chesterton would want to dissuade people he’s the man in it—Lord Masterly?”

  “I don’t give a bleeding damn, I only want his money.”

  Spence looked vaguely like a weasel sometimes, Douglas thought. “Of course, but what if he doesn’t intend to pay? The lady praises him in rather intimate detail. She’s quite complimentary, in fact, about his prowess and endowment and even his generosity, which is not how most people think of Chesterton. He’s a pompous prig and no one would guess he’s a good lover to look at him.” Spence frowned. “If you ask me,” Douglas added, “I think he announced a bounty to draw attention to it, and cause a little stir about his unexpected talents. Is he on the outs with his mistress?”

  He’d made an impression. Spence didn’t reply, and his frown grew deeper. What a coup; it was rare Douglas ever felt the thrill of outsmarting anyone, and he allowed himself a momentary bit of pride.

  It faded quickly, though. Spence took a deep breath and smiled again, this time colder and more reptilian than ever. “Perhaps. I don’t care why he announced a bounty. I only care that he’s done it publicly, which means he shall be forced to pay if you succeed in exposing Mrs. Wilde.”

  “Only if she’s the author,” Douglas reminded him. “She may not be.”

  “We agreed to split the bounty if you proved her guilty before anyone else did,” Spence replied. His humor seemed fully restored now, and his parting words only squashed what was left of Douglas’s good mood. “Did you really think I’d leave it entirely in your hands? I like to spread my chances around. Good day, Bennet.” Smiling broadly now, he tipped his head and walked away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After another long night—made longer by her inability to stop thinking about Douglas Bennet saying he’d dreamt of her—Madeline slept late. It didn’t help. She still woke feeling restless and cross. That man, she fumed as Constance brushed out her hair. That man was making a nuisance of himself. For a moment she wished he’d be rude or impertinent, or baldly ask her to go to bed with him. Then she could reject him and he could leave in a fit of petulance. She didn’t like his flirting, and she really didn’t like his serious conversation, when he claimed there were glints of gold in her eyes. He was a rogue, and despite what she’d told him, rogues were just as bad as scoundrels in her book. The fact that he seemed delighted to be called one only reflected poorly on his character. And if he would stop being charming she would be able to banish him without hesitation.

  She started when Mr. Nash jumped into her lap. “I thought you’d gone out,” she told the cat, stroking his back. He purred at her, circling until he found a position he liked, with his front paws tucked between her knees and his tail swishing against her hip. Madeline rolled her eyes but continued petting him.

  “He didn’t want out this morning, madam.” Constance ran the brush through her hair once more. “Shall I leave it down, or will you be going out?”

  Madeline glanced at the clock. It was nearly noon. The sun shone outside and a warm breeze blew through the open window. She wasn’t pleased with her writing last night, but instead of staying in to work on it, she wanted to get out of the house. “No, I’m going out.”

  She put on her favorite walking dress. Only when Constance was doing the final buttons did she notice the fabric made her eyes look almost green. She leaned closer to the mirror, squinting, and then straightened with a huff. Perhaps there were small streaks of green in her eyes. How odd she’d never noticed them before. And how much odder that he had.

  Mr. Nash bounded down the stairs ahead of her as she went, winding his way around her feet as she tugged on her gloves. Constance shooed the cat away and fetched a shawl. “I’ll be a few hours,” Madeline told the maid, putting on her bonnet. “Tell Mrs. Robbins something light for dinner tonight. I’ll dine at home.” Mrs. Robbins was the woman who came in every other day to cook. Madeline went out so often during the Season, she had no need for a live-in cook.

  Constance nodded. “Yes, madam.”

  “And keep Mr. Nash out of it. A cat must not eat lobster soup.” She shook a scolding finger at the cat, who retaliated by rubbing his face against her shoe, purring hard. Unwillingly she smiled. “You’re too charming for your own good.” He draped himself over her feet, and she gave in, scooping him up and letting him butt his head beneath her chin. Madeline sighed even as she held him like a baby. “I cannot believe I’m so softhearted with you.”

  “Like all men,” remarked Constance. “He’s handsome and knows how to melt a woman’s heart to get himself out of trouble.” She loved the cat almost as much as Madeline did. It was probably Constance’s fault Mr. Nash was so spoiled.

  She snorted with amusement and put her pet down. “How true. But no lobster soup for him.”

  “I’ll do my best, madam.” Constance grinned as the cat transferred his attentions to her hem, where a loose thread hung down. He took a swipe with one paw, then with the other. “Faithless little beast. Already distracted by another woman’s skirt.”

  Madeline laughed and opened the door as Mr. Nash made another leap at the thread. Distracted by the cat’s antics, she took a step out before registering that someone stood at the bottom of her steps. “Mr. Bennet,” she exclaimed.

  He bowed slightly. “Mrs. Wilde.”

  She’d only seen him in candlelit ballrooms, and last night, by the glow of the moon. In the full light of day he was dazzling. His hair shone like polished mahogany as he doffed his hat. His shoulders seemed broader than ever, his figure more athletic. His eyes lit up as he smiled. Madeline was struck speechless for a moment as he rested one booted foot on the first step and leaned forward.

  “I was just about to knock,” he said. “And then you appeared as if in answer to my prayer.”

  With some small effort she shook off her daze. “You must not waste your prayers on something so mundane.”

  “Never question a man’s relationship with Almighty God,” he returned. “I cannot think of anything less mundane than the sight of you.”

  “You haven’t tried very hard, if that’s true.”

  “No,” he cheerfully admitted. “Once I start thinking of you, I don’t try to think of anything else.” He extended his right arm, which had been behind his back. A small but lovely bouquet of pale yellow roses was in his hand. “In fact, thoughts of you struck me very forcibly as I was passing a flower seller, and I was compelled to bring you these.”

  Madeline blinked, off balance. No one had brought her flowers since Arthur died. None of the rogues and scoundrels who sidled up to her in ballrooms ever tried to call on her. “Thank you,” she said. “They’re lovely.” She took the bouquet, then wished she hadn’t. It implied an acceptance of his attentions, which were not turning out to be as transient as she’d promised Liam. “How kind of you to deliver them yourself.”

  He grinned. “Yes, wasn’t it?”

  The polite thing would
be to invite him inside. Madeline resisted it. That was a line she would not cross, not for him or for any other man. “I didn’t expect such solicitousness.” She turned to her maid. “Constance, please put these in a vase.”

  Constance was watching from behind her with unabashed interest. Madeline could tell from her expression that Mr. Bennet had impressed her greatly—or at least his figure had. At Madeline’s words, she tore her eyes off him and took the roses. “Yes, madam.” Somewhat reluctantly she went into the house, almost tripping over Mr. Nash as she went.

  Madeline turned back to her caller, who still stood on her steps looking unbearably attractive. “I was about to go out, sir. I beg your pardon for being unable to converse longer.” She closed the door firmly behind her.

  He didn’t move. “Nonsense. You needn’t beg my pardon, for you couldn’t have known I would call at this moment unless you were watching from your window for me.” He paused with a hopeful glance. “I don’t suppose you were, were you?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Mr. Bennet gave a nod. “Then it’s only a happy coincidence.”

  She blinked. Happy?

  His grin deepened into something more sensual. “Now I can offer my escort on your walk.”

  She should have seen that coming. Unfortunately her wits seemed to desert her when he was around. “I— How do you know I plan to walk?”

  “There’s no carriage waiting. It’s a splendid day. And now that you have a handsome and charming escort at hand, you can hardly refuse.”

  “Perhaps I wanted solitude,” she tried. “Perhaps you don’t wish to walk as far as I intend.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Do you plan to go to Hampstead Heath?”

  She shook her head, and from the corner of her eye caught sight of another man, lingering at the edge of the square. He wasn’t even facing her way but something about his pose brought back the sensation of being watched and followed. A chill whispered up her spine. She was probably being silly, and yet . . . Perhaps an escort wasn’t a bad idea, even an escort as distracting as Mr. Bennet.

  “No, Mr. Bennet, I plan to walk to Bond Street.”

  “That’s a long walk.” He fell back as she came down the steps.

  “On such a splendid day?” She smiled without looking at him. “I look forward to the exercise.”

  He set his hat back on his head and fell in beside her. “I’m very fond of exercise, too.”

  She couldn’t resist a covert glance at him. It was obvious. He was exceedingly fit. “Of walking?”

  He laughed. “Among other things.” There was a wealth of meaning in his tone, and she cursed herself. “I spent the morning at the boxing saloon, and I find a brisk walk afterward helps restore my balance.”

  An image of him stripped to the waist and gleaming with sweat popped into her mind. Madeline fought desperately to think of any other subject. “And you found yourself all the way here. Your balance must be very shaken.”

  He walked beside her without offering his arm, for which she was grateful. It was bad enough being close to him, hearing the low rumble of his laugh, seeing for herself how very strong and male he was. She couldn’t forget how unsettling it had been to share a carriage seat with him. If she had to lean on his arm as well, and feel how firm and muscled he was . . .

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever been more shaken, Mrs. Wilde.” She turned her head sharply. He spoke lightly and yet there was something in his words that made her think he meant something other than balance. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to take my arm, in case I feel unsteady.”

  “Perhaps you should hail a carriage,” she said. “You ought not to risk your health, sir.”

  He made a soft regretful tsk. “I didn’t see a single carriage for hire as I walked here.”

  “I’d wager we shall find one within a few streets.”

  “I’ll take that wager,” he said at once. “If we don’t see a carriage before Bloomsbury Square, you must take my arm.”

  Madeline couldn’t imagine there wouldn’t be a single hackney before then. Still, it was a risk. They had reached Russell Square, a quiet neighborhood. If she lost she’d have to wrap her hand around his strong arm and walk very close to him . . . “Very well.” Fortunately, less than two minutes later, they turned a corner and she spied a hackney carriage ahead, stopped at the watering trough. “You lose, Mr. Bennet,” she said with a tinge of relief. “I see a hackney standing there.” The driver was adjusting the harness; it was obviously available for hire.

  Disappointment flickered over his face. “Well played, Mrs. Wilde.” He clasped his hands behind his back.

  “This is home to me,” she reminded him. “I walk these streets often.”

  “Yes, I did suspect that. Why?” At her frown, he went on. “It’s quite a cozy part of town but it’s really not safe for a lady to walk alone.”

  “I’m not alone.”

  “No,” he said in a low, intimate voice. “Not today.”

  Madeline realized she had strayed closer to his side. She made herself move away. “What do you want from me, Mr. Bennet?”

  Again he tilted his head to look at her, his expression thoughtful. “I like you,” he said after a moment. “I would like to know you better.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re intriguing.”

  “I am not,” she said immediately. Liam’s words echoed in her mind; perhaps she shouldn’t have been so quick to refuse his help. She still didn’t feel frightened of Douglas Bennet, but he had turned up at her house, and she shouldn’t like that. She didn’t like that, she told herself.

  “To me you are.”

  “Because I won’t dance with you?”

  “Well, that is quite shocking,” he agreed. “And after you noted how well I dance!”

  “I also noted you’re a rogue.”

  “My saving grace,” he said with a wink. “But how can you claim to know what intrigues me? You don’t know me, either, aside from a bit of gossip.”

  Madeline smiled. When they first met, she’d meant to set him back on his heels. He was surprising her, though. “Ah yes. In which particular was I wrong? Have you lost your family fortune? Or perhaps you’ve reconsidered your preference for opera dancers?”

  “The family fortune is intact,” he said. “And you do wrong by opera dancers. They take their dancing very seriously, which adds inestimably to the performance. Surely you don’t mean to deny the girls a chance to make a living by their talents?”

  That needle struck home, though she couldn’t let him know it. “Of course not,” she said in exaggerated indignation. “Judge not, that you be not judged. I adhere very firmly to this maxim.”

  “Do you?” He gave her a meaningful glance. “Always?”

  “Was I unfair to you? Was anything I said incorrect?”

  “You said I pitied my friend for wedding my sister, and that is untrue.” He paused. “I was very surprised by it, but I wish them both great happiness.”

  She shot him a quick glance, but there was no wryness in his tone, and his expression was easy and open. It pricked her conscience that she had dismissed him so blithely. “But the rest?”

  “Absolutely spot-on,” he said at once. “I am without a doubt a brilliant dancer, as well as handsome, charming, and fond of the occasional wager.”

  She laughed. That was another mark against him: he made her laugh even when she knew she should brush him off and give him the cut direct if he approached her again.

  “Now,” he went on, his voice dropping to that seductive register, “I expect all this walking has made you very hungry. Shall I treat you to an ice at Gunter’s?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “How can you not be? I’m half starved from all this exercise.”

  Madeline knew he wasn’t serious. Far from weakened, he strolled along
beside her, easily keeping the brisk pace she set. If anything, she felt a little hot and breathless while he wasn’t even flushed. “I will understand if you must stop at a tavern to revive your flagging strength.”

  They had reached Oxford Street, where the traffic was heavy and steady. Her companion gave her a dangerous smile as he turned his head toward her. “My strength isn’t flagging in the slightest. Everything about you invigorates me. And I could show you. In fact . . . I would be very, very pleased to do so.”

  “Unlike you, sir, I take people at their word. If you aren’t fatigued, I believe it.” It was a very good retort, she told herself—or it would have been if she had managed to deliver it in anything approaching a cool and composed manner, instead of in a breathless, almost husky voice. From the way his eyes warmed as he smiled down at her, he had taken more meaning from her tone than from her words.

  “I wish you would take me at my word,” he murmured. “I’ve never lied to you, and I never will.”

  “Never?” Another word she’d meant to say archly, even tartly, but instead had whispered with a hopeful, wondering lilt.

  And again, he reacted to that. His smile faded and his fingers tightened around hers. “Never,” he promised.

  A wagon rumbled past, so near the horse’s tail nearly brushed her skirts as it swished from side to side. In the blink of an eye Mr. Bennet spun her around, almost lifting her off her feet as he moved between her and the traffic. She clutched at him for balance, too startled to speak. No one had done that since Arthur died. She’d got used to looking after herself and keeping everyone else, especially gentlemen, at bay. It was only this gentleman who refused to be kept at arm’s length—whom she had trouble remembering to keep at arm’s length.

  “Sorry,” said Mr. Bennet. “Are you all right?”

  Only then did she realize that his arm had gone around her waist, and his hand to her shoulder. Given the way she was still clinging to his coat, they were nearly in each other’s arms, right on the side of Oxford Street in the middle of the day. And instead of being uncomfortable at the public display or appalled at her own lack of discipline, she felt a deep throb of longing in her chest. She hadn’t felt that since Arthur’s death, either. “Yes,” she said lamely. “I’m perfectly fine.”