“Your friends are touring the lakes, Mother, but mine happen to be here in Bath. Lady Abingdon is here, as is her sister, Mrs. Eastwood. I will be calling on Mrs. Eastwood first.” At which point Colin would join her, and they would begin the hunt for Scipio’s treasure. But there was no need to call that to her mother’s attention.
“By all means, take the carriage. I have no use for it. I hadn’t realized Lady Abingdon was here in Bath. Of course you should see her,” her mother said, ignoring the mention of Adelaide altogether. She only ever listened to half of what Claire said, anyway…which went a long way in preserving their good relationship, in Claire’s opinion.
Scarcely an hour later, the carriage was parked outside the Eastwoods’ residence, and Claire was holding her breath with rapt attention as Colin climbed inside. First came his hand—ungloved and with a small ink stain on one finger—followed by his booted foot. Next came his splendid thigh and his broad shoulders. Oh, he was a truly gorgeous man, from the toe of his worn boot to the top of his golden head.
“How do you do, Lady Claire? And—” He glanced at the woman beside Claire and raised his brows in question.
“This is Meg, my maid. She will accompany us today.”
“Ah. Thank you.” He tipped his hat to Meg and settled against the squabs. He did not look entirely comfortable, despite the fact that the flocked velvet cushions were stuffed full of the softest down from a thousand swans. He crossed his arms and then his legs, and then he uncrossed both before crossing his arms again.
“This is a fine carriage,” he said, in a tone that suggested he disapproved of fine carriages.
“It was my father’s birthday gift to my mother last year.” How absurd that she felt the need to explain. It was a fine carriage, as he had said, and fine carriages were a necessary part of life.
“She must have been overjoyed,” Colin said, but again his tone did not match his words.
After a moment’s hesitation, Claire said, “She was very pleased.”
She must have been. Certainly, she had not been displeased. But, goodness, was her mother ever truly pleased about anything? Or was she merely tolerant?
“Hmm.” Colin turned his attention to the window. “And where will we be going in this fine carriage, my lady?”
“Milsom Street. There is a library there that may be of some use to us.”
“A library.” He frowned, tapping his fingers against his knee.
“Oh, yes. Marshall’s is the largest circulating library in Bath, although I suppose that is not quite the recommendation it once was. When I came here as a girl, there were ten circulating libraries, and now there is not even half that. The first one closed in—ouch.” She rubbed her side where her maid had dug her elbow. “It would have been a very short list, Meg,” she grumbled.
“To be sure, it matters not whether the list is long or short,” Meg said tartly. “It is the habit I am trying to cure you of.”
“What habit is that?” Colin asked absently. He seemed preoccupied with looking out the window, his fingers still fidgeting on his knee. This suited Claire just fine, as it gave her leave to study the charming way his golden-brown eyelashes curled up just a bit at the ends.
“Why, my lady has a terrible habit of knowing more than is good for her,” Meg said. “It’s not suitable for a lady to know so much.”
“Does she, now.”
Suddenly, Claire found herself staring not at his eyelashes, but at the eyes themselves. His blue-gray eyes seemed to turn several shades bluer as he studied her.
“And what sort of unsuitable things does the lady know, I wonder?” he mused.
There was a teasing note in his voice that thrilled her all the way to her toes. Of course she had not the faintest knowledge of kissing or lovemaking, nor all the other delicious things he managed to convey with that one word…unsuitable. She ought to be insulted by any implication to the contrary, but instead, she was rather pleased.
“Nothing that would interest the likes of you, I’m sure,” Meg said with a sniff.
Colin grinned.
Claire suppressed a sigh. He wasn’t flirting with her, after all. He was merely seeking to annoy her chaperone, just as he had at the dance last night when he had teased Adelaide. He seemed the type to chafe against authority. And yet, she did not think him a rogue or a rake. He teased, but he had taken no liberties with her behind the curtain.
A pity, that.
He was, in short, principled, honest, and entirely uninterested in seducing innocent maidens.
Which meant she would simply have to seduce him, instead.
But how? She had watched her friends flirt with men at ballrooms and dinner parties but had never mastered the art herself. A man was more likely to be bored to tears by her prattle than overcome with a desire to kiss her.
Perhaps that was the key. Men did not like words, and she had so very many of them. No, a man liked lips, so long as they were employed in something other than speaking. And…breasts. Yes, men unquestionably liked breasts. She was sure of that much.
Fortunately, she had lips, and she would do her best to keep words to a minimum. As for breasts—she glanced down her nose to contemplate her bosom—she had those, as well. They were of medium size, neither temptingly large nor elegantly small, but they would have to do. However, they could not do her much good, covered as they were by the lacy fichu her mother had insisted she tuck into the neckline of her dress. Mothers were such bothersome creatures.
Claire lifted her hands to her hair and gave it a gentle pat, as though to check her coiffure, all the while surreptitiously pressing her wrists against her chest. A few flicks were enough to push the fichu aside. There, now. She was not immodestly exposed, but at least there was something for him to look at.
If he only would.
Alas, he seemed once again entranced by life outside the carriage window.
She checked a sigh.
Seduction was very hard work, indeed.
Chapter Eleven
It was either stare at Lady Claire’s tits like a salivating beast or out the window. Colin chose the latter, although he would have much preferred the former. He couldn’t understand it. One moment she was safely hidden beneath a pile of lace, and the next moment there they were, plump and begging for his tongue to trace the patterns of her golden freckles.
Damn.
Marshall’s Circulating Library and Reading Room loomed before them. It was, like most structures in Bath, made of honey-colored stone, turned slightly gray from soot.
Colin was of the opinion that, in matters of treasure hunting, books were useless. This was partly because it went against human nature to actually write down where a stranger might steal one’s gold, but also because the written word made his head ache. Hieroglyphs were more easily absorbed by his brain than English letters.
He descended the carriage then turned to assist Lady Claire. She held his hand for a fraction longer than necessary, just long enough for her supple lambskin gloves to remind him that he had erred in stepping out of doors without his own hands similarly covered.
Double damn.
He was out of his element in England generally, and in a library more specifically, and now he had to navigate both discomforts gloveless. Although, truth be told, he was not particularly fond of gloves, especially in August. The heat made one’s hands damp and sticky and vastly uncomfortable.
But that was the way of the peerage. A man had to choose his poison—he could be either uncomfortable in his mind or uncomfortable in his body. Colin’s choice was made—if by only thoughtlessness—so his hands would stay dry and cool, but he would endure the recriminating stares of society as penance.
What a delightful morning this was turning out to be.
Lady Claire glided into the library, looking every inch the lady she was in her lacy pink frock, and completely oblivious to the misery she was inflicting upon him. He followed behind, cursing inwardly.
He watched as she converse
d with the clerk, a reedy man with a sleek white mustache. The man gave a brisk nod, then disappeared into a back room. When he returned, he carried three thick volumes. Lady Claire reached for them, but Colin quickly stepped forward to claim the burden. Gloves were a nuisance easily forgotten, but he could mind his manners as well as any well-heeled gentleman. Better, actually, if his own father set the bar for their kind.
Colin peered at the cover. “The History of the Romans in Britain,” he read aloud slowly but smoothly. There, now. Words longer than two syllables had a way of making his brain stumble, but for once luck was on his side. He had seen these particular words with enough regularity that he was spared the torture of sounding out each letter as he read now.
A quick glance at Lady Claire determined that she was neither shocked nor impressed by his prowess. He turned back to the book.
“Do you believe the author knows where the treasure is? Perhaps he provides a detailed map in the second volume.”
“Don’t be absurd.” One white-gloved finger tapped the book. “If he knew where to find Scipio’s hoard, it would be gone. However, I believe he might have included a detailed list of Roman antiquities found in Bath and the locations in which they were discovered. There is also a chapter regarding Scipio, what little we know of the man. That would be useful to our search, don’t you think?”
Colin paused, considering his answer.
On the one hand, yes, he did think it would be useful. If one wished to find a man’s treasure, naturally it helped to understand the man himself. Was he the sort to bury his gold beneath his floorboards? Or was he the sort to hide it under his enemy’s nose? That would be good to know.
On the other hand, they weren’t going to find the real treasure, no matter what was written in that thick book. And if Colin said yes, why, then he would actually have to read the damn thing.
“No,” he said.
Something flashed in her eyes. “No?”
He remembered then that she was unaccustomed to that word. He rephrased. “Scipio was a general. A master of battlefields and defeating one’s enemy, we may assume.”
She frowned. “Or perhaps not, given that he was fleeing.”
Colin couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Every government falls eventually, given enough eons. My point is, if there is something in that book that points the way to the treasure, the treasure would have been found already.”
She chewed her lip. “They might have missed something. And anyway,” she persisted, “we should know what they know. Don’t you agree?”
He shrugged. “Not particularly.”
“Oh.”
She gave him a timid, unsure look that made him feel like an ass. Not since the moment of their first meeting, when she had informed him that it was quite impossible for a crocodile to chew, had she ever seemed hesitant or plagued by self-doubt. In fact, she was the most confident person he had ever come across, with the exception of Deb. And Deb was entirely too optimistic, which sometimes led to being wrong.
Colin had the sudden conviction that Lady Claire was almost never wrong.
She wasn’t wrong about her books, either. The blame lay entirely with him.
“Never mind,” he said crossly. “We’ll read them.”
He tossed the books into the waiting carriage but balked at the thought of getting in himself. Returning to an enclosed space with Lady Claire would be the equivalent of a fox inviting a goose to tea after declaring his intention to become vegetarian. Why welcome temptation? She smelled too good, and her breasts seemed to be everywhere he gazed, despite his efforts to the contrary.
“What is our destination?” he asked.
“I thought we could take tea at the pump room. There were several Roman discoveries there, including Minerva’s head, although they buried the Roman structures again with the pump room. It might give us some clues, anyway.”
“That’s scarcely half a mile from here. We’ll walk,” he said decisively. “The carriage can collect us there.”
She hesitated, tracing a cobblestone with the toe of one pink-slippered foot. “Mother says I am not to walk anywhere if I can help it.”
“But you prefer to walk.” It was a gamble. She had never said as much to him. But he had never seen her be entirely still. She was always in motion, even now, as she stood before him.
She looked at him with eyes glowing like roasted chestnuts. “I do prefer to walk. You understand me so well, Mr. Smith.”
He looked away. His throat felt dry, as though he had swallowed a bucketful of the Sahara Desert. Words perished there for want of moisture, so he silently offered his arm.
She took it.
And he wondered if the carriage hadn’t been the smarter course of action, after all.
Chapter Twelve
Claire liked shoes. It was the one item of a lady’s attire that was entirely for herself. A dress must please a man’s eye, a bonnet must impress her friends, but shoes were for the lady alone. Therefore, Claire liked shoes, and she had especially liked the soft pink kidskin slippers that she had selected for today’s outing.
But now she wished them to the devil.
They were every bit as pretty as they had been when she had put them on her feet for the first time that very morning. They had been only slightly uncomfortable then, which hadn’t worried her in the least because—as her mother always insisted—ladies took carriages. They did not walk.
Now her lovely pink slippers were wicked instruments of torture. They pinched her toes and rubbed against her heels until every step was agony.
Half a mile. That was all. They must have covered a quarter mile already. Another quarter mile to go, and this moment would be over. She would no longer be in pain, but neither would she have Colin’s arm for comfort.
Perhaps she ought to slow down a bit.
There, now. This wasn’t too bad, was it? His arm was a very nice thing to hold on to, even if she couldn’t quite feel the entirety of his shape beneath the layers of jacket and shirt. He was in there somewhere. She squeezed reflexively with her fingers.
He looked down at her questioningly. “My lady?”
“It is nothing,” she said.
He must have heard the catch in her voice, for he regarded her more carefully. “Lady Claire, are you all right?”
“Quite,” she said firmly, but she made the mistake of limping, which refuted her answer.
He halted. Meg, who had been only a few paces behind, joined them. “What is the matter?”
“I am fine,” Claire said through gritted teeth, because even though she was fine—which she indeed was—she was also hurting quite a bit. “My shoes pinch, that is all.”
Colin squatted to take a look. He moved the hem of her skirt aside without touching her. There was a pause, and then he rose quickly.
“Blood is soaking through your slipper,” he said. His words sounded like an accusation, as though she had purposefully brought harm to herself.
“Oh, dear.” Her lovely new shoes would be unwearable after this. She would have to get a new pair. “Hadn’t we best continue on now? Surely, someone at the pump room will have a bandage or cloth.”
His lips flattened into a grim line. “You can’t walk.”
“I must walk. There is no choice. We sent the carriage ahead to await us there.” She took a step but couldn’t quite mask her wince.
“Lady Claire.” He turned her to face him. “You cannot walk. I will have to carry you.”
Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes. How romantic that would be, to be carried in his strong arms through the bustling streets of Bath!
But no. He could not. She could not. It simply wasn’t done.
“I am gratified by your concern for my welfare, Mr. Smith.” Although he didn’t sound concerned, truth be told. He sounded angry. “But we are surrounded by people who have nothing better to do than gossip while they convalesce. You cannot carry me.”
His eyes glittered. “Oh, but I can.”
She had no
time to prepare, no time to protest his disregard for society’s rules. He simply scooped her up like she was a child, one arm supporting her back while the other went under her knees.
Behind them, Meg made a noise of protest. “Sir!”
He ignored this and strode onward.
“Put me down,” Claire said primly, but she didn’t mean it. His arms were strong, his chest was delightful, and she almost wept with relief as the pain in her feet eased.
He kept his eyes forward, refusing to look at her. “I will not. I am going to carry you the remaining quarter mile to the pump room. It is not an easy distance to carry a lady, by the by, and you are not made of feathers. If you will not be grateful for my service, you will at least be quiet.”
“All right,” she said, miffed.
He glanced at her. His lips pressed together. Then he looked away again.
Claire sighed. She lowered her head so her bonnet obscured her face somewhat, though she had little hope of going unrecognized. Someone was sure to know her—and tell her mother, under the guise of friendly worry for her reputation. She could not, therefore, melt against the safety of his muscled chest, nor rest her head on his shoulder, no matter how much she wanted to. She consoled herself with the gift of studying his face from a very close distance.
A bead of sweat appeared on his brow. Slowly, slowly, it trickled south. If left to run its course, it would end in his eye. Wouldn’t that sting? But he couldn’t do anything about it. His arms were full of her, ensuring her comfort at the expense of his own.
She bit her lip. She shouldn’t. Really, she shouldn’t.
But she did it anyway.
She swiped his brow quickly with her gloved hand, removing all traces of sweat. The lines of his throat moved as he swallowed, but he said nothing. He did not thank her, but neither did he censure her.
So, when more sweat formed, she did it again. A quick brush of her palm against his forehead and it was done before he could protest. And since he did not, in fact, protest, she did it a third time.
Wicked With the Scoundrel Page 5
