It would not matter what tribulations were cast into her path, whether they threatened to knock her over. Mouse would always pick herself up and continue on. Forge a new path for herself, wherever it happened to lead her.
And for just a moment he experienced a sliver of regret that it could never lead her to him.
He hissed in a breath as the blade nicked his chin, then patted at his face with a wet cloth, wiping away the last of the shaving soap, ignoring the sting.
A few more weeks, until he’d wearied of toying with Andover. That was all it could amount to between them. And then he would have to release her.
Chapter Twenty Three
Mouse arrived at the dinner table in a gown of soft, buttery yellow, and Grey found himself torn between amusement and exasperation.
“I thought I gave instructions that anything yellow was to be removed from your dressing room,” he said, striving to modulate his voice. He’d given the order as soon as the pipes had rattled in the walls, signifying she’d secluded herself within the bathing room.
“Alas,” she said, in a tone of triumph as she sank into her chair, “it seems the laundry maid could find only six gowns.” Which meant, of course, that she had anticipated such a turn and had made an effort to conceal one, purely to needle him.
“Touché.” He supposed he couldn’t hold it against her. After all, he’d had the fruits of her little embroidery project folded up and safely tucked away, because he’d known that she would attempt to steal them back—and she had. Simpson had confided that she’d searched the whole of the house in his absence, but she had not discovered them tucked beneath his mattress. They were a piece of her that he would keep when she had gone, a memory he would always savor.
Soup arrived before them, presented by a pair of footmen. A white broth, creamy and rich and tasting of almonds and basil. The spoon in his hand felt almost foreign, as if it had changed somehow in the past weeks into merely an eating utensil rather than a talisman. As if she had changed him into a different sort of man altogether.
It was not a comfortable sensation. Something akin to panic scrabbled in his chest—like the last throes of a man drowning. He forced himself to shove it down and asked, “What have you been up to in my absence?”
Her lips pressed together, and a frown etched itself between her brows for a moment, before she smoothed it away. She had not liked to be reminded of that, he realized—for some unknowable reason, his absence had wounded her.
“Not much,” she said. “Sarah and I went to Gunter’s, and for a stroll in the park.”
He nodded, because it seemed the thing to do—because there had been a time that she had hesitated to leave the house, but now it seemed that she had conquered the fear of being seen by anyone she might once have known, and it gratified him that he had not stolen the simple pleasure of being out and about in town from her.
“You took a footman, of course,” he said, between sips of soup.
“Of course,” she said. “Though I don’t why it should be necessary, given my rep—”
“It’s necessary.” Though he still suspected Andover, he had yet to determine who might have been behind the shot fired into his carriage. Though he had no reason to suspect that Mouse was in any particular danger, he still would take no chances with her safety. “It’s not for your reputation, Mouse. It’s for your safety.”
Her brows knitted as she abandoned her spoon for her glass of wine. “I see,” she said. And then after a moment of hesitation, she admitted, “Lady Alice called on me a few days ago.”
“Lady Alice?” he inquired.
“She is—was—a friend,” she said, but something about the tense lines of her face suggested that she was not well pleased to explain it in such terms. “Lady Alice Darrowby.”
“And she called on you? Here?”
“Well, where else should she have called on me?” She gave a blasé shrug of her shoulders. “She came in the company of a few other ladies and their lady’s maids, I suspect to safeguard their own reputations. A lady doesn’t visit a bachelor’s household unaccompanied,” she said by way of explanation. “I admitted her, but I wish I had not.”
“She offended you?” It emerged a guttural growl, but even when he tightened his fist around the spoon in his hand, applied the instinctive pressure to the fragile neck, still it felt wrong. Unfamiliar. But if Lady Alice had said a single word to make Mouse feel inferior, to hurt her in any way, then she would live to regret it.
Mouse shook her head, sipping her wine as the footman carried away the bowl of soup and scooped a serving of what looked like braised beef onto her plate. “No,” she said. “She was…polite. Friendly. It was awful.” Her fingers curled around her fork and knife, and she sliced off a piece of beef. “There was a time I would have been very glad of her friendship, but it has gone.” The frown that had settled over her face was one part misery, one part wrath. “She only wants to attach herself to me now out of curiosity and…and I think she craves popularity.”
“Popularity?” Grey felt his brows draw together.
“Oh, yes,” she said, and Grey heard the shadow of a sneer in her voice. “Despite my sullied reputation—no, because of it—I am apparently now all the rage.” Her white teeth cut cleanly through a bite of beef. “Lady Alice said something to that effect. Like a heroine in a Gothic novel, a tragic victim of circumstance.” Blandly, she gestured to him with the point of her knife. “The villain would be you, of course. And my father, naturally. How lucky I am to merit two villains.”
Something that felt alarmingly like shame crept over him, because there was no disputing that much. But somehow he didn’t think she had meant the words as a taunt or a judgment—she was still in a snit over her unwanted callers. “Davenport did say he would have his mother correct matters.”
“Well, I wish someone would have asked me what I wanted,” she snapped. “Because I much preferred being scandalous.”
And despite the lash of ire in her voice, Grey found himself…somewhat relieved. That perhaps she might be once again drawn back to the bosom of the society into which she had been born. She might always be at least a bit scandalous, but there was hope for her, hope for the future to which she was entitled. Once she had left his house, she would be able to seize that opportunity, take advantage of being championed by a duchess and take up her place once more.
Perhaps he had ruined her, but he had not ruined her. When he let her go, she would be a celebrated figure, and he would be—well, he would be what he always had been. The iniquitous pretender to their ranks, no better than he ought to be.
But she would be safe. They would close ranks around her, one of their own who had been ill-used all around. The ugliness to which he had subjected her would fade in time.
He said, “You don’t want to be scandalous, Mouse. It doesn’t suit you.” It was a lie; a bit of scandal suited her quite well, but she needed a nudge back toward the life she had rejected now that it was once again within her grasp.
Mouse bared her teeth in a scowl. “Yellow doesn’t suit me, either, and yet I am wearing it.”
Hiding a smile behind his own glass, he said, “For now. But I’ll have it, Mouse. I always win.” He needed to remind himself of that. He needed to remind her of that. She might have taken from him the comfort of his odd habit of bending spoons, but he was no less the demon the Ton thought him—ruthless to the core, a born manipulator, twisting circumstances to suit himself.
Mouse’s chin notched up, a blatant challenge. “I’m keeping this one,” she said, but the curl of her lips suggested she relished the fight for it.
“We’ll see about that.” He speared a slice of beef himself, enjoying her temerity.
“One might think you could be content with six,” she said, but she peeked at him through her eyelashes, gauging his reaction.
“One might think,” he allowed. “One would also be wrong.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I mean it, Grey. You will not like my re
tribution.”
Oh, but he would—eventually.
∞∞∞
Grey had gotten the gown, of course. Snatched right off the back of the chair, where Serena had left it in the open—a trap of sorts, to ensure that he would rise to the bait and justify her revenge, which he would no doubt be expecting to follow swiftly.
So the next morning she left the house with Sarah and a footman in tow and returned some hours later unsurprised to find him still present, though he could have gotten a hack to take him wherever he might have needed to go.
She suspected he had remained only to see what form her revenge would take, and she was delighted to see, when he descended the staircase upon her return—as if he simply could not wait any longer—that she had well and truly shocked him.
He stumbled on the stair, his dark brows rising toward his hairline in horror. “What the devil is that?”
Serena fluttered her lashes in her best approximation of a coy glance. “My new puppy,” she said. “Her name is Cassandra. Isn’t she precious?” The yipping spaniel pup in her arms squirmed for freedom, unbearably excited by her new surroundings.
Grey ran a hand over his jaw, which had tightened so severely she was surprised that it had not creaked. “Take it back.”
She set her chin and declared, “Carte. Blanche.”
He stared back, but she thought she glimpsed a flicker of surprise in his eyes, and she knew—knew—that he would be the first to flinch this round.
“Father would never let me have a dog,” she said, as the puppy licked her cheek with all enthusiasm. She smoothed Cassandra’s soft fur, relishing the feel of the squirming little body cradled against her breast. A tiny creature that would be hers and hers alone—something to love, and which would love her in return. “She is mine, and I am keeping her.”
And Grey said…nothing.
Cassandra gave a pitiful little whine, and Serena bent to set the puppy on her feet to allow her the opportunity to acclimate to her new surroundings. Immediately, Cassandra began racing around the marble floor of the foyer, her paws sliding across the slick surface, nails clacking out a furious pattern as she pranced and gamboled, her soft ears flapping wildly.
The puppy careened across the floor toward Grey, who had frozen at the bottom of the stairs, and for a moment she sniffed him curiously, traipsing around him to smell his boots, the hem of his trousers.
Then, as the final indignity, she squatted straight over the toe of his expertly polished boot and relieved herself.
Serena choked on a chortle, smothering it in the palm of her gloved hand.
Grey’s eyes, blazing with menace, settled on Serena as he bellowed for his housekeeper, Mrs. Hathaway. The shout sent Cassandra skittering away once again to take refuge behind Serena’s skirts.
Grey’s jaw worked, and he seemed to be gathering steam for a blistering set-down. “You—that—”
Serena canted her head to the right, pursing her lips together to quell a grin. “There was a whole litter,” she said. “Be thankful I contented myself with just one.”
Silence settled between them for a moment, and Serena knew by the look in his eye that he was already planning his own retribution.
She knew also that Cassandra was hers, and that even if he disliked it, Grey would suffer the puppy’s presence in silence, because as much as he would have liked to believe otherwise, he was not so cruel as to take a beloved pet from her.
And true to form, he bit out a furious invective and stalked straight back up the stairs, his boot dripping the whole way.
Chapter Twenty Four
There was something so comforting about puppies, Serena decided as she woke to Cassandra’s chubby little body plastered against her throat. Even if one did have to rise at uncomfortable times to let them out into the garden to do their business. It was the puppy’s high-pitched whimper that had roused her—a sign that Serena had swiftly learned meant that Cassandra needed to relieve herself once again.
Dawn had not yet broken, but Serena slid out of bed and felt for the dressing gown that was draped over the bedpost, frowning when her hand met only polished wood. Odd—perhaps Sarah had taken it to be laundered.
But it was early enough that she wasn’t likely to encounter anyone, so she cradled Cassandra against her chest and slipped out of her bedroom door and down through the house, toward the door that led into the garden. Cassandra squirmed and whimpered and then, once Serena had set her on her feet at last, scrambled onto the grass to relieve herself, and swiftly came trotting back afterwards, her little nails tapping on the concrete of the terrace.
Muffling a yawn in her hand, Serena headed back up the stairs once more, the puppy cradled in her arms content.
She started as she pushed open the door to find Sarah standing in the bedroom, her hands on her hips, brow furrowed in confusion.
“Good morning,” she said, after she’d recovered herself. “I think I will wear the blue muslin today—the one with the silver braid on the bodice.” Another yawn. “After a bit more sleep,” she clarified.
“That’s going to be a bit difficult,” Sarah said testily, “seeing as you haven’t got any gowns.”
“I haven’t—” Serena frowned. “What do you mean I haven’t got any gowns? I’ve got scores of them.”
“Not anymore,” Sarah said, with a flick of her wrist toward dressing room where the gowns were stored. “Have a look for yourself if you like.”
Serena set Cassandra on her feet and headed for the dressing room with a queer sense of anticipation settling her belly. When she pushed open the dressing room door, she saw—
Nothing. Not a damned thing. Not a gown or a pelisse or even so much as a single shawl. Not a hat nor a pair of shoes. Nothing.
“Well,” Sarah said from the bedroom, amidst the sound of opening and closing drawers. “You’ve got some chemises at least, and your nightgown, of course.”
Even in the midst of her fury, Serena wanted to laugh—which was an entirely inappropriate, inconvenient response to such a thing. He’d stolen her gowns! Every last one of them!
Well, perhaps stolen was a strong word, given that she owned nothing of her own. Still, it was not to be borne—of all the outrageous, heavy-handed, contemptible—
And just how had he accomplished it? Employed his sneakiest, most soft-footed servants to creep past her as she slept, carrying out armloads and armloads of them, and she none the wiser?
Cassandra wove around her heels, and Serena heaved a sigh. Likely she’d have slept like the dead, given that she’d had to drag herself out of bed several times during the night to attend to Cassandra’s needs. She nudged the puppy gently back toward the bedroom and plunked her hands on her hips.
“I’m going to strangle him,” she announced.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Sarah called from the bedroom. “I’m not likely to find so well-paying a position again.”
“This—this—” Serena gestured to the empty dressing room, well aware that Sarah couldn’t see her. “This violation cannot be allowed to pass.”
Sarah snorted.
“I mean it!” Serena dug down deep and pushed aside the unwilling amusement to nurture that glow of exasperation. “I’m going to strangle him!” She stormed back into the bedroom.
Sarah looked up from her perusal of the drawers and arched one brow. “Not dressed like that, you’re not,” she said. “I’d give it less than a minute before you’re flat on your back.”
“Then I can only hope it takes less than that to murder a man.” And irrespective of her state of undress, Serena stomped away.
The slam of his door against the wall roused Grey from sleep, and he jerked his head from his pillow and shoved himself upright, scraping one hand over his face to clear away the lingering cobwebs of sleep.
“Mouse?” he inquired, hearing the scratchy tenor of his own voice. “What the—” The question faded into silence as his eyes focused at last, taking in her rumpled appearance—the nightgown
, the tumbled hair, the pursed lips, the sharp point of her chin thrust pugnaciously forward.
Her shoulders drawn back, hands clenched into fists as if preparing to strike out at him. Curiously devoid of weapons, though as far as he knew, her knife was still tucked away inside the drawer of her nightstand.
So she’d discovered her gowns missing, then. Good.
Her jaw tensed as her chin tilted up. “Where,” she seethed, “are my gowns, Grey?” Those golden brows, normally soft and gently arched, slashed across her face.
Brave Mouse had become piqued enough to rout him in his bed chamber, invading the sanctity of his room to impress upon him the depths of her fury. He wondered how long she could hold onto it, given the right sort of provocation.
“Mouse,” he said, striving to clear the remnants of roughness from his throat to replace it with a silky, smooth intonation. “I do believe you’ve invaded my privacy.”
“I!” she gasped. “I have invaded your privacy?” It was said in such a tone of scandalized wrath that he very nearly ruined his scheme by laughing.
“As you’re standing in my bed chamber, Mouse, I would think that is something upon which we both can agree.” He studied her face, watched her gaze settle first on his bare shoulders, then drift to his chest and down his abdomen. Her pinched mouth softened—just a little. Her brows lifted—just a little.
Her fingers flexed, as if she were struggling to hold on to her anger. Perfect.
“I’m afraid you’ve made a bit of a miscalculation,” he said, and he fisted his hand in the counterpane, slung his legs over the edge of the bed, and threw off the bedclothes entirely.
She squeaked in surprise, her whole body jerking. A hot flush spread slowly over her face, creeping first through her cheeks and then sliding down her throat. Her face went slack, her shoulders drifted down, and through the thin linen of her nightgown, her nipples beaded into tight points.
The Scandal of the Season Page 21
