A Gentleman Never Tells

by Eloisa James

  She hadn’t the slightest inclination to eat supper, let alone something as heavy as that pie.

  “How long have you been the guardian of your niece, Mr. Berwick?” she finally asked.

  “Eleven months,” he said. And then, without hesitation, “Why on earth did you marry Adrian Troutt?”

  She blinked at him. “Those two questions are hardly commensurate.”

  “I don’t see why not. You asked me about my family, and then I asked you about yours.”

  “Polite conversation is not a question game,” she noted. “I do not consider Adrian a member of my family. He is my deceased spouse.”

  His eyes turned out to be indigo blue. There was a faint smile in them that made her stomach curl. “Don’t you think men and women always play some sort of game while conversing?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Lizzie said, with perfect truth.

  His brows drew together. “I wasn’t in London when you debuted. So I truly don’t know why you chose Adrian Troutt.”

  “I didn’t choose him; my father did. He wanted my sister and me to be titled, and he was prepared to pay handsomely. Adrian presented himself, and Adrian had a title.”

  “Oh, right. Now I think of it, your sister said as much.”

  “Do you have family, Mr. Berwick?”

  “I have a sister, Hattie’s mother. She’s in Egypt, ardently hoping that she can save souls by handing out cups of tea and reading the Bible aloud in a language ­people there don’t understand. If she’s not already in Africa, doing the same thing.”

  “Goodness,” Lizzie said, a bit taken aback. “Sarah told me that Hattie’s mother lived abroad.”

  “It sounds better that way, as if she might be taking waters in Switzerland, or on holiday in Portugal. Fortunately, Hattie and I have taken to each other, because her parents don’t plan to return for years. You are not eating, Lady Troutt.”

  Lizzie look down at her plate. “I don’t care for beef pie.”

  He glanced up and a footman instantly appeared at his side. “Take this away,” he said. “Bring Lady Troutt something made from vegetables.”

  The footman bowed and departed.

  “You needn’t have done that,” Lizzie remarked. She picked up her wine glass and fiddled with it.

  “Why stare at food if you don’t wish to eat it?” Clearly he liked beef, given the rate he was putting away his pie.

  “I was taught to try each dish.”

  A footman slipped a plate in front of her. “Asparagus tart, my lady.” It looked fresh and green, and far more appetizing than the brown sludge on Mr. Berwick’s plate.

  He watched her eat a bite and then nodded, which could have been patronizing but somehow wasn’t.

  “So your father forced you into marriage, and as a result you refuse to see him?” he asked.

  Lizzie froze with her fork half way to her mouth. Then she took the bite, carefully chewed, and swallowed. “It seems you and my sister have had remarkably candid and wide-­ranging conversations.”

  “Yes.”

  There was something intoxicating about the way Mr. Berwick’s eyes focused on her face, the way he listened with complete concentration.

  “I was not particularly angry about my father’s choice of Lord Troutt,” Lizzie said, surprising herself with the confession. “I only became angry after I fled my husband and my father refused to take me in.”

  Mr. Berwick made a grunting sign that somehow, improbably, Lizzie took as indicating support.

  “If I ever have children,” she added, “my home would always be open to them. Always.”

  “Lucky children,” he said.

  Lizzie felt a flash of alarm. Mr. Berwick was dangerous, with his warm eyes and straightforward questions. He could make one believe that he had no secrets. That what you saw was . . . who he was. That he was honest in his dealings with the world.

  What’s more, the hint of desire in his eyes when he looked at her made her feel giddy, which was an absurd emotion.

  “I don’t mean to have any children, so it’s a moot point,” she told him, straightening her backbone, because she was showing an alarming tendency to lean toward him.

  “Oh? Why not?” He didn’t look critical, merely interested.

  She ignored the obvious fact that she had no husband. “They look like howling plums, round and purple.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. “You’re absolutely right. Howling plums wearing little white bonnets.”

  “Worst of all is when the plum has a huge shock of hair,” she said, smiling despite herself. “What about you? Why aren’t you married, with a fruit basket of your own, Mr. Berwick?” If he could be direct, so could she.

  “I haven’t fallen in love, and I see no point in marriage otherwise. I do not lack for company—­for all my niece is convinced that I will wither from loneliness after she grows up.”

  Of course, he didn’t lack for company. He likely had a Shady Sadie of his own, installed in a snug house, just as Adrian had.

  That was the moment when she discovered that Mr. Berwick was able to anticipate her thoughts, as well as her love of vegetables.

  “Not that sort of company,” he said bluntly. “That wouldn’t be appropriate, given that I am guardian to an impressionable young girl.”

  Lizzie discovered that she was smiling. “I expect that heartlessness is a useful attribute for a bachelor.”

  “Only if one wishes to remain unmarried.”

  His eyes caught hers, and an uneasy thrill went through her, as if someone had struck a gong just behind her shoulder. “Heartless conduct is definitely required of rakes,” she said, striving for a careless tone. “I am a great reader of novels. In Lucibella Delicosa’s books, rakish men are invariably ill-­mannered.”

  Too late, she remembered the Wooly Breeder fiasco. “I didn’t mean that!” she said. “You were very young.”

  “But definitely ill-­mannered,” he said wryly. “It was kind of your sister to overlook my conduct and invite me to her house, given our past.”

  “I suspect that you came all this way merely in order to apologize.”

  He nodded. “I did. But your sister turned something I had dreaded into a pleasure—­and I would be glad I came even if that wasn’t the case, because I’ve met you.”

  She could feel her cheeks turning pink, so she said hastily, “More ­people will arrive for the house party tomorrow.”

  “I’m not very good at small talk. Perhaps I will pretend to be your personal footman. I can make sure you are given something edible.”

  Lizzie looked down and realized with surprise that she’d eaten an entire slice of tart. A footman bowed and offered a serving of cod drowned in white sauce. Her stomach lurched at the smell of heavy cream and fish.

  Mr. Berwick shook his head. “Lady Troutt doesn’t want it,” he told the footman. “Ask Bartleby to have the cook poach a small fillet and serve it with lemon.”

  She loved simple fish dishes, but it was a bit unnerving to find that Mr. Berwick guessed as much.

  Lizzie drank some more wine. She couldn’t complain, though he was awfully high-­handed.

  He didn’t seem to feel the need to chatter, which was also nice.

  “Did my sister inform you about who arrives tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I gather Mr. Benjamin Jagger will join us.” His face was noncommittal, but she had a distinct impression that he didn’t approve. It was like being in a carriage and glimpsing a lake iced over: one could see the effect of the chill but not feel it.

  “Why don’t you like him?” she asked.

  “I do like him.” It seemed to be an honest answer. And yet . . .

  She pursued her lips and was rather amused to see that his eyes followed the movement. He actually gave himself a little shake before he looked back at her eyes
. Adrian had said her mouth was too large. In fact, he said several times that it was unfortunate, given his last name, that he married a woman with trout lips.

  For some reason the memory didn’t bother her this time.

  “You do not like Mr. Jagger,” she said. “I can tell by your face.”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Berwick said in a growly sort of voice. “Jagger is a solid fellow. I appreciate his good qualities. I just don’t think he’s appropriate company for ladies.”

  He took a bite of his fish. “You needn’t worry. I will keep him away from you.”

  Lizzie liked his assumption that Mr. Jagger would pay her attention. “But has Cat told you all the guests who will arrive tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  He sounded supremely uninterested.

  Oh dear. Cat really ought to have warned him. “My sister’s closest friend is the Countess of Mayne,” Lizzie said. Then she waited.

  His lips tightened. “That is a rather extraordinary coincidence,” he said, finally.

  “I believe that the countess’s sobriquet was the ‘Scottish Sausage,’ ” Lizzie said, deciding that there was no point in obfuscating the subject.

  He nodded silently.

  “If it helps,” she said, impulsively touching his right hand. “My sister truly wasn’t distressed by the nickname she was given. She is a tremendously happy person, as you can see.”

  They both looked at Cat, shining at the top of the table, laughing at something her stepdaughter had said. “She’s very good at being happy,” Lizzie added. “When we were growing up, she often made Papa laugh by doing something frightfully silly. She used to keep a dormouse in her pocket and bring it out at dinner.”

  Mr. Berwick threw her a wary look. “Does she keep them around her person to this day? I have no particular fondness for rodents.”

  Lizzie grinned at him. “My brother-­in-­law knows just how to handle her. When she first showed Joshua her dormouse—­who was named Sunflower—­he went on and on about how the ancient Romans used to dip dormice in honey and poppy seeds and eat them for dessert.”

  When Mr. Berwick laughed, his eyes lightened to the color of an early morning sky. “Cooked or uncooked?” he inquired.

  “I would assume cooked. According to Joshua, they also ate them at picnics. At any rate, when Cat married, she took the hint and gave Sunflower to our butler as a goodbye present.”

  “Was this a popular gift?”

  “Absolutely. Sunflower came with a large fund for purchasing seeds and berries, and Joshua threw in two bottles of excellent brandy. So Sunflower lived a long and happy life in the butler’s pantry—­which was only a matter of another year or so.”

  “She was a lucky dormouse to find herself on sufferance in a butler’s pantry.”

  “Indeed,” Lizzie agreed. “I do think that Cat should have told you that Lord and Lady Mayne were among her guests. It would be rather shocking, I imagine, to come face-­to-­face without preparation.”

  Mr. Berwick shrugged. “I had intended to make my apologies to both ladies. It appears that fate has determined I do so expeditiously.”

  “I’m sure Cat told you how grateful she is that her first season went awry. If she hadn’t been sent home in disgrace, she wouldn’t have met delicious Joshua.”

  “ ‘Delicious Joshua’?”

  Lizzie nodded. “That’s what she calls him.” Her brother-­in-­law was leaning toward his wife, and as they watched, he dropped a kiss on her cheek. He wasn’t nearly as good-­looking as Mr. Berwick—­but then, very few men were.

  “I suppose if you like that beard,” Mr. Berwick said, with the faintest touch of doubt in his voice.

  She didn’t, but she couldn’t say so without making it sound as if she were flirting. Which she was not doing. “Would you like to practice your apology?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He really had the most marvelous way of concentrating on the person he was speaking to. It made Lizzie feel as if she might do something utterly silly, like burst into giggles. Or pull a dormouse out of her pocket to amuse him.

  Lack of mice made the last option difficult, so she said, “Practice your apology. I could play the part of the sausage. I mean,” she said hastily, “the Countess of Mayne.”

  “I couldn’t possibly practice in public,” Mr. Berwick said. He had a sort of severe elegance about him that kept tricking Lizzie into thinking he was falling into a bad humor.

  But he wasn’t. If she looked at his eyes, rather than at the patrician cast of his cheekbones and hard jaw, she discovered he was amused. In fact, he had an open face. And an open manner.

  She had the idea that if he became angry, you’d know right away.

  It was a much better way of living than bottling everything up inside because there was no way to inform Adrian of her feelings.

  At the head of the table, Cat was standing, so Mr. Berwick brought Lizzie to her feet, tucked her arm under his elbow, and said, “I would be very grateful if you would allow me to rehearse my apology, Lady Troutt. Perhaps we can find a quiet corner in the drawing room.”

  Part of Lizzie—­the quiet, contemplative part of her—­thought this was a very bad idea. A different part of her thought that any reason to be alone with Mr. Berwick was a wonderful idea.

  A fizzy, dizzyingly good idea, in fact.

  Since the quiet part of Lizzie was never very good at speaking up, she gulped and allowed herself to be led into the drawing room.

  Chapter Eight

  SO FAR, OLIVER had had little success making Cat’s sister laugh. On the other hand, he hadn’t unleashed any jokes—­mostly because he couldn’t remember any. He’d made a mental note to ask Hattie for a joke or two, but he had no faith that would do the trick.

  At the moment, he was simply focused on not allowing Lizzie Troutt to escape and flee to her room.

  He had the distinct impression that she wanted to go back to her reading and forget about him. She was unnerved. He could see it in her eyes but then . . . he could also see something else.

  A confused but utterly delicious emotion. Hopefully, it was desire. Because, damn it, he was in the grip of a lust like nothing he’d felt before. It was making it hard to breathe.

  And he was damned glad that his pantaloons were as generously cut as they were.

  “Why don’t we take a promenade?” he suggested, once they reached the drawing room. He squinted down to the end of the room. “We’ll probably end up in the next county by walking far enough in that direction.”

  “For propriety’s sake, we ought to remain with the others,” Lizzie said. But she started walking.

  She couldn’t be worried about her reputation, given that the only ­people in the room were members of her family. “I promise not to make an untoward advance to you this evening,” he said.

  “I’m a widow, Mr. Berwick. I have no fears of that sort.” And she turned up her little nose, as if being a widow meant no man would want her.

  He wanted her, but he decided not to mention that he was definitely planning on making an untoward advance in the near future. They were reaching the shady end of the room.

  “In the evening this room grows frightfully chilly and damp,” Lady Troutt said. “We might take a chill.”

  She wanted to avoid him—­a good instinct, because Oliver felt more and more like a fox who had stumbled on a particularly succulent chicken.

  He wanted her.

  He wanted to kiss the sadness out of her eyes, and ravish that wide mouth of hers until she looked as if she were wearing lip paint. He wanted to see her panting on his bed, all that glorious hair spilling around her shoulders. Maybe it fell all the way to her waist.

  Lust went straight down his body in a shocking bolt of heat.

  “Your gown is not intended to provide warmth,” he said, una
ble to stop himself from glancing at her bosom. Gentlemen do not ogle a lady’s breasts, even if her gown was so low that her breasts looked like presents, offered for his pleasure. Like creamy, silken—­

  He cut off that train of thought.

  “This is a Parisian creation created from a few scraps of silk,” Lizzie said disapprovingly. “I hate to think what my sister paid for it, given its lack of fabric.”

  “Surely you don’t expect me to bemoan the fact that you aren’t draped in bolts of cloth?” Oliver noted that his voice had dropped at least an octave.

  Her mouth opened in a little circle. He leaned closer. “I was thinking of sending the modiste a personal thank you.”

  Rosy color swept into her cheeks.

  This end of the drawing room was indeed rather chilly, with a distinct odor of damp. Oliver hated to cover up all that luscious skin, but he pulled off his coat and wrapped her in it.

  “I cannot address you as Lady Troutt,” he stated.

  She was nestled in his coat, sunny hair scrunched against the collar. “Weren’t you planning to address me as Lady Mayne?”

  “For a few minutes, yes. But not thereafter.” The words came out of his mouth without planning. “I dislike thinking of Adrian Troutt in connection with you.”

  “I wasn’t aware that you knew my husband.” Her eyes were cool and haunted again.

  Damn it, she couldn’t have loved that blighter, could she? Surely not.

  “I knew of him. I spend almost all my time at my estate in Yorkshire and I rarely go into society.”

  “It would be most improper for you to address me as anything other than Lady Troutt,” she observed.

  “Yes, but here we are, without a chaperone. We’re already being improper,” he said, coming to the most extraordinary conclusion.

  It seemed this was his girl.

  His woman.

  The person who would be his wife.

  A slightly sad, utterly delectable woman named Lizzie Troutt.

  They were far down the room, almost lost in the shadows. “Lizzie,” he said.