The Dangerous Lord

by Sabrina Jeffries

  And now two of his choices had run off with other men. Two others he’d offered for had refused him after his damned uncle paid their parents a visit.

  No doubt Uncle Edgar had thought Ian wouldn’t hear of his cowardly attempts to undermine Ian’s search for a wife. But Uncle Edgar didn’t know how much his nephew had changed in the past years. Ian was no longer the hotheaded nineteen-year-old who’d run off out of pride and stubbornness. This time he would stay and fight. He wouldn’t let that bastard drag Chesterley into the ground the way he’d done his own estate. If Ian couldn’t find a wife in time, he’d publicly reveal the truth about the man, even if it meant destroying himself in the process. He’d send himself to hell if that’s what it took to put Edgar Lennard there, too.

  Unfortunately, he now had another troublesome person to contend with. His gaze fixed on a laughing figure across the ballroom. Miss Taylor. Dressed in a modest gown more suited to a simpering virgin than a firebrand spinster, she stood with society’s most accomplished rumormongers. Lady Brumley. Lord Jameson. The March sisters.

  Miss Taylor was the only one among them with any sparkle or style. Given her disheveled attire at their first meeting, that surprised him. Tonight, she’d taken every care with her appearance. Her pearl-encrusted slippers were most certainly costly, her jewels tasteful and elegant, and her hair swept up by a pearl pin much more sophisticated than the two pencils she’d sported yesterday. Candlelight heightened the glow of good health on her cheeks, glancing off the creamy satin that sheathed a body even a courtesan would envy.

  Bloody hell—he was thinking of her in those terms again. What dangerous idiocy. Witness the way he’d missed half his shots after luncheon today, caught up in thoughts of nonsensical things like the sudden sunrise of her smile when Sara praised her father’s designs. Or the impish gleam in her eye when she’d pretended not to have read the gossip she’d written about him.

  Damn the bloody woman for being so adept at invading his thoughts. And why must he feel this cursed attraction to her? It made no sense. She was a plague upon society and all good sense, a woman who traded on her father’s reputation to plunder the lives of anyone so foolish as to speak to her. Even now, she conversed with Lady Brumley, sometimes dubbed the Galleon of Gossip because of her large frame and equally large mouth, not to mention her tendency to wear outrageous hats with a nautical motif. He could imagine the dirty byways their discussion wandered in.

  “So you met Miss Taylor at her home, did you?” a female voice asked at his side. Without looking, he recognized the lavender scent of Jordan’s wife, Emily.

  Her question demonstrated why sexual attraction was dangerous. If his mind had been clear this afternoon, he wouldn’t have underestimated Miss Taylor’s audacity. In trying to force her into a lie, he’d instead tempted her to tell the truth, and that had caused him no small inconvenience in twisting her answer to cover up his sins.

  Dragging his gaze from Miss Taylor was more difficult than he would’ve liked. “I see you’ve been talking to Sara. Yes, I met Miss Taylor at her home. I respected her father a great deal.”

  “Did you really? Come now, Ian, I doubt you ever even met Algernon Taylor.”

  Ian shrugged. “I needn’t have met the man to admire him and his work.”

  “You must have admired him enormously to pay his daughter a condolence call. You never call on anyone without a purpose.”

  She knew him too well. “Be careful, my nosy friend,” he said lightly. “You’re dabbling in matters beyond your purview.”

  Emily arched one blond eyebrow, then glanced across the ballroom at Miss Taylor. “She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”

  Pretty didn’t begin to describe her. The girls who tittered and flirted with him were pretty. She was energy itself, vital, alive, like a scarlet rose among pastel lilies.

  But roses had thorns, and Miss Taylor’s thorns were tipped with poison.

  “She doesn’t interest me, I assure you.” Amazing that he could speak the blatant lie with a straight face. And more amazing still that it was a lie.

  “What a shame. You seem to interest her.”

  That startled him. “What do you mean?”

  “According to Sara, she was full of questions about you, especially when she heard that you are once again an eligible bachelor.”

  He groaned. “I should’ve known Jordan couldn’t keep a confidence from you—”

  “Don’t blame him for it. The news was circulating before I even left London this morning. Did you really think a family could keep an elopement quiet for long?”

  “I suppose not.” So Miss Taylor knew the entire affair now. The bloody witch probably congratulated herself over her success. So why hadn’t that quelled her obsession with ruining his life? If she’d been asking about him, it clearly hadn’t.

  Damn. He must find a new strategy for dealing with her.

  “Miss Taylor had read that beastly article about you,” Emily went on, “but Sara set her straight on that matter, too.”

  Ian frowned. “Set her straight?”

  “Sara thought you might appreciate it if an unattached female like Miss Taylor knew the truth. After you explained to us this morning about your soldier friend and his sister, we were both eager to have the truth known. You’re being modest about the situation and your role, but we dislike hearing your character maligned so unfairly.”

  It was all Ian could do not to curse aloud. Now Miss Taylor would think him a bigger liar than before. Which, in a way, he was. “As I recall, I asked you to keep that story to yourselves to protect my friend’s privacy.”

  Emily cast him a sidelong glance. “And we’ll do so. Sara merely wanted to help. You have been looking for a wife, after all. It’s important that eligible women know your true character.”

  “Women like Miss Taylor, I suppose?”

  “Of course.” Emily batted her fan a few times. “Surely you won’t balk at marrying a respectable woman simply because she has no great claim to fortune or birth. If you’re looking for a wife, Miss Taylor wouldn’t be a bad choice.”

  He wanted to laugh. Marriage to Miss Taylor would be sheer disaster. With her loose tongue, penchant for digging up secrets, and delight in skewering men of rank, in less than a week—no, a day—after the wedding she’d be nosing into his affairs.

  Besides, she’d never agree to marry him. The little he’d gleaned about her indicated that her father had left her a substantial inheritance, so money was no incentive. And since she thought him a profligate and a town rake, a man who lived to debauch women and humiliate his fiancée, the usual attractions of marriage wouldn’t tempt her.

  Still, marriage to Miss Taylor would be as entertaining as it would be maddening.

  No, he reproached himself. That doesn’t even bear contemplation. “You seem to have a very favorable opinion of the woman. Yet you hardly know her.”

  “True. But I liked her as soon as Sara introduced us. She’s adorable—funny and intelligent and direct. You must admit you’re far too somber these days, and certainly too secretive. You need a woman like her to bring you out of yourself. And if, like so many men, you want a wife with a spotless reputation, she has that, too.”

  He snorted. “Spotless? I seriously doubt it.”

  “Oh?” Emily looked at him with interest. “Do you know something about Miss Taylor the rest of us don’t?”

  A pity he couldn’t tell Emily that Miss Taylor was Lord X. It would serve the loose-tongued creature right to be exposed. But he wasn’t ready for open war—yet. “I merely meant that she isn’t what she appears.”

  “Then you’re the only one to think so,” Emily retorted, obviously disappointed by his refusal to reveal more. “No one ever speaks ill of her.”

  That was precisely why Miss Taylor moved with impunity through society. She needn’t be a member of Almack’s. Championed by those of Lady Brumley’s ilk, she need only be the daughter of the dashing Algernon Taylor to gain access to prestigious routs an
d balls and thus to all the gossip she required for her column.

  Secure in her anonymity, she dug up old gossip, then passed judgment without ever suffering society’s censure. If she’d once been the subject of speculation herself, he doubted she’d be so bloody self-righteous.

  Ian stilled. What an intriguing thought—Miss Taylor, the subject of gossip. The strains of a waltz reached his ears, and he began to smile. Perhaps it was time the self-righteous Miss Taylor learned firsthand how easily a situation could be misconstrued.

  Without giving himself a chance to question his motives, he excused himself to Emily, then strode purposefully across the room. Ah, yes, he knew exactly how to teach Miss Taylor a much-needed lesson in humility, especially if her reputation was as “spotless” as Emily implied.

  As soon as Felicity saw Lord St. Clair heading toward her, she braced herself for trouble. Devil take Katherine! Felicity had risked discovery to prevent her friend from marrying a degenerate, and the woman had run off with her family’s steward instead!

  If she’d known Mr. Gerard was the object of Katherine’s affections, she would never have encouraged it. But she’d naively imagined some squire’s son with less fortune than Lady Hastings wished. Not a servant, for pity’s sake, who was doubtless a fortune hunter! Drat it all!

  Katherine was supposed to turn St. Clair down flat, then marry a man at least marginally suitable to her genteel class. The foolish girl.

  Now, for all her trouble, Felicity had a hornet on her tail. No wonder Lord St. Clair had spent luncheon baiting her—he must be furious! She watched him approach with growing unease. The man had an uncanny ability to keep his true feelings buried ten feet under, and that made him more difficult to manage than a man easy to read. If she had any sense at all, she’d run.

  A pity she had nowhere to go.

  “Lord St. Clair is coming this way, my dear,” Lady Brumley said beside her, with a nod of her elaborately coiffured head. “Shall I introduce you?”

  “Thank you, we’ve met.” No doubt the marchioness would make much of that. Lady Brumley hadn’t reached sixty without learning how to turn the sparest comments into fodder for gossip. Felicity relied on the Galleon of Gossip for half her column, and sometimes wondered if Lady Brumley had guessed who wore Lord X’s pants.

  God knows, she wished it were anyone but herself just now.

  Then the troublesome viscount was upon them, wearing a smile so alarming she could barely manage one in answer. He nodded briefly at the marchioness, then bowed to Felicity. “Miss Taylor, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

  The scoundrel. He wanted to get her off on the dance floor so he could rail at her, and he knew she dared not refuse with Lady Brumley drinking in every word.

  Well, she had to face his wrath some time. “I’d be happy to dance with you,” she lied, extending her hand. Though I’d be happier still if I’d never met you.

  He led her to the floor with the practiced ease of a gentleman, then settled one hand on the curve of her waist as the other closed tightly around her gloved fingers.

  She groaned. God preserve her, she’d agreed to a waltz, and waltzes were not her forte. Her dancing in general left much to be desired, but with some figures, like the quadrille, she could follow her fellows and hide her missteps in the crowd. That was impossible with a waltz.

  “Lord St. Clair—” she began, meaning to warn him. But he’d already whirled her onto the floor. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, she chanted in her head, futilely trying to keep from stumbling or making a misstep.

  “Miss Taylor—” he began.

  “Shh,” she muttered, casting an envious glance at the others who so deftly managed the dance’s intricacies. Her fingers dug into his shoulder. “I’m counting.”

  “Counting?”

  “The measure. I’m very bad at the waltz.”

  He eyed her with suspicion. “You must be joking.”

  She trod on his foot completely by accident. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered as she sought to find her footing again, nearly bringing them to a halt.

  He half dragged her back into step, remaining silent until she found the measure again. “How could you not have mastered the waltz? You go to a different social affair every night.”

  “Yes, but I don’t go to dance.” She resumed her death grip on his shoulder. Maybe he could simply carry her about the room. He was certainly large enough, and she’d already ruined any appearance of ladylike grace by clinging to him like a drowning woman.

  When he didn’t answer her comment, she risked a glance up into his face.

  It was shuttered, his eyes impersonal as gems. “I forgot—you go to hear gossip.”

  “To gather material.” His condescension and obvious ease at the waltz irritated her. “You go to hunt up a brood mare. I don’t see why that’s any more acceptable.”

  “A brood mare?” he choked out. “Is that what you gleaned from your interrogation of Sara this afternoon?”

  She stumbled and he caught her, whisking her back into the step only moments before she collided with another dancer. It took her a second to regain her composure. “I did not interrogate Sara. She offered information.”

  “And you made your usual ‘speculations’ based on hints and innuendo.”

  “So you’re not looking for a wife to bear your heir?”

  A long silence ensued, during which she became aware of something besides the waltz…like the broad masculine chest at her eye level…the scent of bay rum and starched linen and plain, unadulterated male…the muscled arms holding her a trifle close for propriety. At some point he’d moved his hand from her side to the small of her back. Although she understood why he felt the need to manacle her waist with his arm, given her abysmal ability, it was still most improper.

  She eased back from him, then nearly lost the measure, prompting him to tighten his arm further. When she met his gaze, she found him watching her with amusement.

  “You really can’t waltz, can you?” he said.

  “Did you think I’d make something like that up?”

  “Why not? You make up everything else.”

  “Not your reasons for needing a wife, I suspect,” she said, determined to make him answer her question.

  He let out an exasperated breath. “Of course I need a wife to bear me an heir. That’s why most men of title and fortune need a wife.” He paused. “So, shall I expect to see that in the next edition of the Gazette?”

  She was starting to feel comfortable enough that his snide remark didn’t make her lose step. “Really, Lord St. Clair, you do have an exalted opinion of yourself. I have more interesting things to write about than your courtships.”

  “Yes, like Katherine’s elopement.”

  So he’d finally brought it up, had he? Tilting her head down, she focused on his expertly tied cravat. “Why should I write about that? Everyone already knows of it. Besides, despite what you think, I don’t go about trying to ruin people’s lives. Katherine is my friend, after all.”

  “You’ve already humiliated her by writing about my supposed mistress. Why balk at discussing her elopement?”

  The unfair accusation stung. “I’ll concede that my article might have given her some discomfort, but clearly it didn’t last. The end result was her happiness.”

  “Are you so sure? This steward of hers met your impeccable standards?”

  Her interest in his cravat grew amazingly acute. “I didn’t know him, but I’m sure he’s a very nice man and will make her happy.”

  “I see. Which means you’re as dismayed about the elopement as I.”

  He was so smug, drat him, and much too adept at reading her mind. “Not at all. At least he claims to be in love with her, which is more than I can say for you.”

  “You have an answer for everything, don’t you? But I know you, Miss Taylor, and you don’t believe in love any more than I do.” He tugged her closer, plastering her to him from thigh to chest in a most indelic
ate manner.

  She tried to shove him back, but failed. “I may not waltz very well,” she hissed, “but must you hold me so close? It isn’t proper, you know.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  When he didn’t allow her so much as an extra inch in response to her criticism, she said, “Would you kindly release me?”

  “I think not.”

  It dawned on her that this had nothing to do with her dancing abilities. “Why?”

  “Because holding you at arm’s length wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable.” He coupled his comment with a smile so wicked it made her heart stop.

  She trod purposely on his foot, but dancing slippers were no match for a man’s leather shoes. “Lord St. Clair—” she began.

  “Call me Ian.” An edge entered his voice. “After all that you know about me, I see no reason we should stand on ceremony.”

  “Now see here, I know you’re angry with me about Katherine’s elopement—”

  “You wrote publicly of matters that weren’t your concern. You asked my friends about my private affairs.” She missed a step, but he jerked her back into step unceremoniously and danced on. “And you don’t even have the decency to feel remorse for what you’ve done.”

  “Because I did nothing wrong!”

  “Really?” They whirled into candlelight that highlighted his taunting smile. “Then you won’t mind having the situation reversed.”

  Uneasy foreboding made her stomach lurch. “What do you mean?”

  He bent his head close enough for his lips to brush her ear. “Have you ever been gossiped about, Felicity?”

  She froze in his arms. Good Lord. That’s why he’d asked her to dance. She’d been so engrossed in not stumbling all over her feet that she hadn’t cared how closely he held her—until it was too late.

  Glancing around, she noticed for the first time the whispers and looks of interest from the dancers closest to them. No one ever danced the waltz so closely unless they were courting…or worse.