by Claudia Dain
“Very well, Sophia,” he said gently. “No pity.”
They stared into each other’s eyes, a soft look, a quiet look, a kind of look she had not shared with either man or woman for year upon year. And then she smiled, and broke it. Intentionally. Very intentionally.
“It was your doing, wasn’t it?” he said after the moment was broken. “You did it. You punished them with it.”
She could not seem to help herself. It was most disgraceful of her, to be sure, but she could not help it. She laughed. “It was a very good satire, my lord. It provoked such a vivid response.” And then, because she truly could not help herself, she winked.
Ruan, because he was just that kind of a man, laughed with her. It was most charming of him.
“Did they suffer?” he asked.
“Darling,” she said with a smile, “they suffer to this very day, though the second Marquis of Dutton is dead now, of course, so he can provide me with no more entertainment of that particular brand.”
“His son, the third Marquis of Dutton, has not stood in for him?” Ruan asked. “You seem to have a special talent for making his life quite miserable.”
“Poor man,” she said gently. “I’m afraid he does that all by himself. I take no credit for it and, indeed, do not wish him ill.” Which was not precisely the truth, but which was close enough to serve as truth.
“You know, Sophia, seeing you here with your brother, the light dancing in your dark eyes as you recount the joy of punishing those who have slighted you, you seem very much an Iroquois, very unlike the countess of Upper Brook Street, taking her tea, ordering her life around her pleasures.”
Yes, very observant. The problem was, of course, that she was beginning to appreciate that in him, to treasure it for the rarity it was. Most men saw what they were prepared to see. The Marquis of Ruan simply saw.
“Ruan,” she said, taking a step nearer to him, her breasts dangerously close to his chest, “I am very much an Iroquois. And I do order my life around my pleasures. The only thing left for you to ask is what my particular pleasures are. If you dare.”
“If I dare? Will you punish me, Sophia? For what offense?”
“For not providing me with my pleasure? That would suit, wouldn’t it?” She smiled up at him, enjoying this dance of war and seduction, of danger and satisfaction. It had been too, too long since a man had entertained her mind as well as her body. This one looked entirely capable of both. “You are a man of adventure. Will you not dare to ask me how you may pleasure me? Will you not risk my answer?”
“What am I risking, Sophia? For you, I would risk much.”
“How much?”
It had all gone serious again, dark and deep, and she didn’t care. More shockingly, she loved it. How much would she let him see of her and how much would he still want her, seeing more? She let very few see any part of her beyond the mask. Ruan sought adventure? Let him find it in her.
“My own satisfaction,” he said. “I would see the men in the satire punished for what happened that night.”
“That satisfies you. How does that satisfy me? It is an old story, long forgotten.”
“You have not forgotten it. You have made certain that it was recorded, in the satire.”
“Darling, you are too gallant. My daughter married Westlin’s heir. Do you think I am not satisfied by that?”
“What of Dutton?”
“What of him? You think more of Lord Dutton than I do. I thought we were speaking of me and of what I want. And what you would risk to get it for me.”
“Is this the Iroquois speaking or the countess?” he asked softly.
“Does it matter?” she countered.
Ruan smiled and shook his head. “No.”
Sophia chuckled.
“Will I come out of this alive?” he asked her.
Sophia smiled. “Does it matter?”
“No,” he said, his green eyes gleaming with humor and with stark intent.
“NO, Miss Prestwick, I don’t know anything about Chinese porcelain beyond that it is expensive and therefore desirable,” Iveston said.
“But if you knew something about it, perhaps that would explain why it is so dear,” Miss Prestwick said.
“Miss Prestwick, it is perfectly logical, which you must admit as you are a logical sort, that if Chinese porcelain were ten for a penny, no one would want it to carry slops to the family pig. High price equals high desirability. It is the rule of the marketplace.”
“You think I am a logical sort?” she asked quite earnestly, which was quite adorable of her. “That is most observant of you, Lord Iveston.” Which took the shine off the adorable part of it. It would have been so much more effective for her to have told him he was kind or sweet or some such mildly chivalrous thing. But no, not Miss Penelope Prestwick. She thought him observant and praised him for it, much like a kind tutor with an earnest pupil.
What was worse, he found himself actually beginning to be charmed by it. It was just mildly adorable of her. He’d never encountered a woman anything like her before now. Of course, part of that was his very effective determination to avoid all marriage-minded women, but truly, even accounting that in, he had never met a woman anything at all like Penelope Prestwick.
Oh, she had all the female bits. The lustrous hair. The shining eyes. The stunning bosom. The rather charming heart-shaped face. But she wasn’t at all that extraordinary. Until she opened her mouth and refused to charm him or compliment him or even attempt any effort at all to be noticed by him. In point of fact, she seemed rather often to be annoyed by him.
It was singularly unusual as experiences went. He feared, at least at present, that he was becoming increasingly fascinated by it. By her. By her lack of any sort of normal reaction to him.
He simply could not think of turning away from the delightful little oddity that was Penelope.
“But regarding the porcelain, even you must admit,” she said, “that they are works of art and things of unique beauty, hence their dear price.”
“Even I, Miss Prestwick?” he asked. “Because you have determined that I have no eye for beauty? That I would not recognize a work of art if it bit me on the chin?”
“Not at all, Lord Iveston,” she said primly, looking at him very disapprovingly, as if he were a complete dullard. “It is only that you clearly feel that for art to be precious it must be difficult to obtain. My belief is that beauty is what is being paid for, not rarity.”
“Can something common be beautiful, Miss Prestwick?”
He said it to annoy her. He found it fascinating to watch her he exasperated by him. Why, he couldn’t have said. Perhaps the rarity argument? Quite possibly.
“The glories of nature, Lord Iveston?” she counted.
“The simple magnificence of a rose?” he suggested, watching her swallow heavily and avert her gaze. Perhaps Cranleigh had something in suggesting he speak to Penelope about her roses. She did seem to have some sort of reaction to them every time they were mentioned. A most unusual and not at all positive reaction.
“Roses are beautiful, are they not?” she said.
“I would never argue against a rose, or the lady who grows them,” he said.
She fussed with her shawl a bit and looked across the room, avoiding his gaze. What was amiss with her roses?
“I trust your roses are still beautiful after the events of the ball?” he asked.
“Everyone is so very concerned about my roses,” she said, a bit sharply, too. “I had no idea that horticulture was such a common passion among the ton.”
“Had you not, Miss Prestwick?” he said, trying to resist the urge to tease her, and failing at it badly. “The ton share many passions, common and otherwise.”
She gave him a very scolding look, which suited her somehow, and said, “I have only to visit a shop and see a satire to know the truth of that, Lord Iveston.”
A most awkward remark for her to have made as Cranleigh and his bride had been the subjects of a very lurid sat
ire that had had not a little to do with their getting married. But then, wasn’t Miss Prestwick in the habit of making awkward remarks? And wasn’t her brother in the habit of smoothing the way for her? Her brother was not at her side now. How would she do without him? As it was Iveston’s brother who had been pricked, a most unintentional pun, by Miss Prestwick’s remark about satires and common passions, he felt it was his duty, his right, and his pleasure to fight back against the most disapproving Penelope Prestwick. For the family honor, and all that. Oh, and for curiosity.
“Or visit your very bruised and broken roses? It was your conservatory, amidst your roses, that formed the backdrop of the satire regarding Cranleigh and Lady Amelia, was it not? Do you not bear some responsibility for what occurred at your own ball? Or did you perhaps inspire the creation of the satire by a whispered word to some fellow who would relay the information to Gillray?”
Penelope’s mouth dropped open, snapped shut, opened again, and she said, very nearly standing on her tiptoes so that she could stare him down, “I would never do such a thing! Do you think I enjoyed having my ball ruined by that … that brawl that happened in my conservatory? Do you think that I wanted my roses to be the subject of speculation and lurid fame from now until I can’t think when? And do you think that, if I had wanted such a thing to happen at my ball, that I wouldn’t have gone to Gillray myself? I, Lord Iveston, am no such person as to require others to do my work for me, which I am quite certain must astonish you as you clearly have no experience in doing anything for yourself as it is well-known that you have required your very able younger brother to fight the females off of you in packs. I must express some pity for those who want to marry you as they are all clearly imbeciles.” And here she stopped herself. Barely.
“For wanting to marry a man like me?” he finished, his voice as soft as eiderdown.
“I make no presumptions as to what sort of man you are or would be as a husband,” she said, staring at the room behind him, clearly just now aware of how shrewish she had appeared. Miss Prestwick’s voice carried quite well when she was impassioned. An interesting tidbit he filed away for later consideration. “I only remark upon my observations as to the man you appear to be today.”
“Caustic observations,” he said.
“As least mine were observations. Your remarks were accusations, and equally caustic,” she said, taking a shallow breath and pressing her lips together. She had quite a lovely mouth, now that he thought about it. “I can’t think how we came to near blows, Lord Iveston. I have no animosity toward you, but I think you must agree that I was provoked most unfairly.”
“If I must, I must,” he murmured.
Did she realize how often she made pronouncements and edicts? Likely not. Women never did realize those sorts of things, the very things that made them unattractive to men. The question now to be faced was why he didn’t find her unattractive. With every impassioned word out of her lovely little mouth he found himself more and more intrigued. She wasn’t the least bit in awe of him. The only other female he could think of who wasn’t a bit intimidated by him was his mother. And Sophia, but he really couldn’t put Sophia in the same class as a virginal young woman out in Society looking for a titled husband. And Penelope was looking for a husband, that much was obvious. She’d be a fool if she wasn’t, and at least by her own definition, she was no fool.
“Would we really have come to blows, Miss Prestwick?” he asked. “I do suppose you would assume that I’d call Cranleigh in to fight for me, but in this instance, I do think I should like to fend for myself. A tussle, Miss Prestwick. To tussle with you. How do you think I’d fare?”
She smiled, which did show such a basically amiable nature that he smiled in return. She was marvelous fun to tease. “I think, Lord Iveston, that I’d not disgrace myself.”
“Miss Prestwick, do I hear a chiding note? Dare I think that you believe I would disgrace myself?”
“Lord Iveston, you are very much maligned, I think, to be so sensitive as to your abilities. For good cause, one must but wonder,” she countered, smirking at him, “have you been often trounced? I find it difficult to fathom. You would outreach all your opponents, but perhaps it is your very nature which defeats you? Are you not a fighter, Lord Iveston? Perhaps it is that you lack not the experience but the need, for who would attempt Hyde’s heir?”
“You are, aren’t you, Miss Prestwick?” he countered. “I think you are brawling with me even now, using your very quick tongue as a sharp weapon when all I have is my long arms. What can I do with long arms in this instance, Miss Prestwick? I lack the swiftness of tongue you demonstrate so well. Propriety forbids me from explaining, let alone demonstrating, what tongues and arms may do when employed together.”
He didn’t know where that had come from. It was quite beyond the pale. It wasn’t at all like him to taunt and tease a woman, and certainly not a virginal one, but there was something so very prim and superior and forthright about Penelope that he found he couldn’t resist. What were her limits? How far could he go and how would she respond? All he knew without doubt was that she would respond unlike any other woman of his acquaintance. And that alone charmed him.
She didn’t seem to want him. It was most peculiar of her, as well as being somewhat relaxing. His guard was down and he found it strangely refreshing. As well as more than a little insulting.
Of course there was the wager, but it was a paltry thing. He didn’t care what Cranleigh, or anyone else, thought of him or her or the lack of interest on her part. What did it matter? In a week, at best, it would be forgotten forever.
But he knew even now that he would not forget. How could he? She was his first, rejection, that is, and a man didn’t forget his first. No, not quite rejection, nothing so strong as that, but something almost infinitely worse. Little Miss Prestwick was not even bothering to look him over.
How utterly inexplicable.
He considered her as she considered him, his most inappropriate words hanging in the air between them. She didn’t look especially alarmed, though she was looking at him more intently than she had yet done. He found he enjoyed it.
“Lord Iveston,” she said, staring boldly into his eyes, “I do think your nature betrays you yet again. My initial impression was that you are not a fighter, and now I find myself adding that you are also not a lover. If a man is neither a lover nor a fighter, what is left for him to be?”
“A duke,” he said, smiling at her response. Miss Prestwick was a fighter. What next but to wonder if she was also a lover?
What was wrong with him? He never behaved this way before today. Of course, he’d never met Penelope Prestwick before today.
“When a man is a duke, all else becomes inconsequential,” she said, smiling. “I see you have your priorities well established and have nothing to fear and, indeed, no action or inaction to defend.”
“You are not angry,” he said, studying her. “I have not behaved as I ought, said things I’ve never before said, yet you are not angry. Why is that, Miss Prestwick? Is it because I am to be a duke?”
“I’m sure that’s part of it,” she said, with a brief smile. “I think it is only that you have surprised me, Lord Iveston. I have not had many conversations with men, aside from my brother of course, of such openness in both content and expression. I’ve enjoyed myself. I hope you have as well.”
She was comparing him to her brother?
“I have, Miss Prestwick,” he said softly.
Her brother?
“In the spirit of openness, and finding you not at all what I expected,” she said, looking around the room behind him in the most careful manner, “I wonder if I may continue on in like manner, asking something of a minor favor of you.”
“Minor favors often have very long strings,” he said.
“Oh, no, not at all,” she said with some firmness. “It is only that it would be so very convenient if you could, please, continue on being quite attentive to me.”
He was puffing with pleasure before the word convenient pricked all pleasure of out him.
“Convenient, Miss Prestwick? I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
“It is only that, I have found that the surest way to gain male attention is to have one male lead the way, as it were. I was only hoping that you might not find it inconvenient to lead the way, only for a time, until I gain the attention of the man I would not be at all displeased to marry. It would be the smallest of acts, Lord Iveston, and I do believe you have all the necessary skills to be convincing. If it would be no trouble?”
It took no effort at all to understand her words, obviously. No, the trouble was in believing them. Was this some ploy to haul him into marriage?
By the very earnest look in her dark eyes, it was not.
What was left was worse. She wanted him … no, no, that was the problem. She didn’t want him at all. She wanted him to act as a lure to other, more desirable men. One man in particular, no doubt. A woman who had worked up a plan like this already had a man in mind. And it wasn’t him.
By God, why wasn’t it him?
He had no desire to marry her, obviously, why should he, but if she had the wit to entertain a single thought in her head, she should want to marry him. Perfectly obvious, wasn’t it? It had been obvious all his life. He’d been outrunning and outmaneuvering mamas and their avid daughters for well over ten years. What was wrong with this woman? Certainly there was nothing wrong with him.
“I assure you, Lord Iveston,” she said against the wall of his shock and silence, “there will be nearly nothing at all for you to do. A conversation here and there, a dance or two over the course of the Season, nothing much beyond normal discourse between two unmarried people enjoying their Season in Town.”
“Nothing much beyond? Yet something beyond,” he managed to say. “How else to work the trick, Miss Prestwick?”
“It is not a trick!” she flared. “It is nothing like. It is only that men behave in certain ways and respond to certain prompts.”
“Like trained dogs,” he said crisply.
“Rather like untrained dogs,” she snapped back, her eyes flashing. “Even you must admit that men follow certain signals, particularly where women are concerned.”