Wicked With the Scoundrel

by Elizabeth Bright

“Is it her injury?” He took the stairs two at a time. Good God, it was her spine. She might be in pain, or paralyzed, or—

  “No, sir. She is not feeling well, that is all.” Meg huffed as she tried to keep pace with him.

  He knocked at her door but did not wait for her response before bursting through. “Claire?”

  “Oh!” She sat up, startled, and pulled her wrapper tightly around herself. “Good news, darling. I am not with child.”

  Behind him, Meg groaned. But he did not care what the maid thought of them, not when Claire’s face was pinched with pain.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, coming to sit next to her on the bed. Meg huffed in disapproval, but he ignored it.

  “It is nothing!” she insisted. “Perhaps slightly worse than the usual discomfort. But never fear. The doctor left me some laudanum in case I felt achy today. He said it is quite common to feel sore all over after a fall, and not just where one landed.”

  Colin regarded her silently. She looked slightly paler than usual, but cheerful nonetheless. Damn her and her determined spirit! How was he to protect her from hardship when she didn’t actually seem to mind suffering? Damn her for not realizing how fragile she was!

  Damn her for not realizing how it would destroy him if she came to harm.

  “What can I do? How can I help you?” he asked.

  She eyed him warily. “If I ask you to rub my back, will you forbid me from leaving this bed?”

  “No.” No matter how much he wanted to.

  “Then that, please. My back is always a little sore during my courses.” She flushed. “I suppose you would have learned this after we were married, anyway.”

  “Turn on your side.” He glanced behind him to see Meg take a seat, clearly taking her duties to her mistress seriously. “There? Is that where it hurts?”

  “Yes.” She moaned quietly as his fingers kneaded gently.

  He worked the tense muscles of her lower back carefully, just in case her spine was truly injured from her fall. Yes, yes, the doctor had said otherwise, but mistakes could be made, couldn’t they? “Did you already take the laudanum?”

  “Yes,” she said again. Then she yawned. “I’m feeling quite sleepy.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  He continued to rub her back, moving up her spine and then down again, until her breathing grew deep and even. He leaned over her to see her face. She was asleep. He rose carefully so as not to disturb her.

  “You’ll see to her comfort?” he asked Meg, pausing at the door.

  She looked mildly affronted, but still she nodded. “Of course.”

  With one last look at Claire, he left.

  He found Chatwell in his study. “My lord, a word?”

  “Of course. Sit down.” The marquess gestured to a chair.

  Colin sat. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  In two days’ time, Claire could sit and rise again without wincing, and thank goodness for that. If she heard Colin say, “Perhaps you should rest,” even one more time, she would be forced to bludgeon him with one of the onyx cats he had sold her father.

  The bruise on her bottom had changed from a deep purple to a sickly shade of yellow. It was hideous, but as Colin had not visited her bed since her fall from the horse, that hardly mattered.

  “Now that you are well again, we should leave for London,” Colin said over breakfast. “You will want to prepare for the wedding, and the banns must be read.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I was never unwell. But yes, I should like to leave for London as soon as possible.” Her friends had already left Bath the day before, and there was so much to do to prepare for their journey to Egypt.

  “London?” Her mother paused in the act of applying jam to a scone. “But you will be married at Chatwell House. Hampshire is much better for a summer wedding.”

  Claire looked at her mother in surprise. The marchioness loved London. Or, if not truly loved, then at least tolerated it above all else. “Wouldn’t you rather go to Town, Mother?”

  “You will not find London very welcoming, I think,” the marchioness said.

  “It is not the Season, but there are still several families in Town,” Claire protested. “Many of our friends are there.”

  “That is not what I meant.” She glanced neither to the left nor to the right, but beside her, Mrs. Smith flushed. Clearly, she had not mistaken the marchioness’s point, even if Claire had.

  Well. That settled it, then.

  “I will be married at St. George and nowhere else,” Claire said firmly. “I’ve dreamt of this day since I was a little girl.”

  Which wasn’t remotely true. She had always known she would marry, of course, but she had looked at marriage as a thing that could not be avoided rather than a thing to be dearly wished for. It was her experience that once the excitement of a wedding was over, a husband and wife continued on as they had before, ignoring each other as best they could. If she had known her husband would be Colin, she would have awaited the blessed state with a great deal more enthusiasm.

  For she was fortunate in her choice of husband, and she would never give him cause to believe she felt otherwise. Even if that meant standing up in St. George’s with a hundred judgmental eyes on her. Let them stare. They would see that she had the finest husband in all England.

  Had it really only been one month since the night she had lain awake, considering the obstacles that prevented their marriage and devising a way around them? It had seemed so simple, then. Wealth and standing had been all that stood in their way. She had not yet realized that the circumstances of his birth would weigh so heavily. But he had asked her if she would like him better had he not been born a bastard, and she had given him the truth.

  She felt doubly so now.

  Unfortunately, the marchioness did not share her feelings.

  “A quiet wedding in the country would be much more appropriate,” her mother said firmly. “The papers are already full of gossip about the treasure. You know how I detest gossip.”

  Claire girded her loins. She did not like to go against her mother—it was so rarely worth the effort—but in this case she must insist.

  But help came from another corner.

  “I’m afraid it must be London, my dear.” The marquess raised his teacup apologetically. “Colin and I have business matters to attend to that cannot be delayed.”

  Claire looked sideways at Colin. What business matters? He had said nothing of this to her. Oh—but yes, he had. He had wanted her father to fund his next venture in Egypt. Whatever it was he had in mind—she really ought to ask him about it, men always liked to discuss their plans—it would be good of him to allow her father to have a stake in it, even though Colin now had funds of his own. Her father would be sorely disappointed otherwise.

  “Now that we have settled on St. George’s, we can make our plans,” she said brightly. “Colin said you lived in London before leaving for Bristol, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Smith looked confused. “My lady?”

  “Oh, no. You must not address me so, as I am to be your daughter. Won’t you call me Claire?”

  “I suppose I could try,” Mrs. Smith said doubtfully.

  “And what shall I call you?” Claire pressed gently.

  “I— I suppose it must be Mary.” The woman looked around in bewilderment.

  “Well, then, Mary.” Claire gave her an encouraging smile. “You lived in London once. Do you have friends there still?”

  “Yes, my— That is, Claire.” Mary cleared her throat and took a sip of tea. “My dear friend, Sarah. We grew up together and went into service together. She had a position nearby so we saw each other a good deal, until I moved away. We still write. Not often, but when I can find a bit of paper and can afford the postage, I send her a letter.”

  “Oh.” Claire’s heart broke just a little at the thought of scraping together enough pennies to send a letter. “Would you like to send her a letter now
? So that she will know to expect us?”

  Mary stared at her blankly. “Expect us to what, my lady?”

  Claire didn’t bother to correct her. It would come in time. “To expect us to visit her, of course. Or, if she would rather, you can send her my card, so that she might know where to find us.”

  The marchioness, upon hearing that a maid would be calling on them in London, drew in a long breath. Her knuckles turned white around the spoon handle.

  Claire very determinedly refused to meet her eyes. It would be all right. For all her mother’s faults, she would never be purposefully rude to anyone in her home.

  “Mary?” Claire prodded gently, for the woman was still staring at her as though she were some strange species of bird that grew a beak from its tail feathers. “You could send the letter today. It might arrive before we do.”

  Mary folded her hands tightly together. “Yes, thank you. I would like that very much.”

  “Wonderful.” Claire beamed.

  Her mother stood abruptly. “If you will excuse me, I must tell the maids to ready our things for London.”

  The marquess sighed and heaved to his feet. With a murmured excuse, he followed his wife.

  “I’ll go write my letter now, if you don’t mind,” Mary said quietly.

  Which left Claire and Colin quite alone. He shoved back his chair roughly and stood. She watched apprehensively as he approached her in three quick strides.

  “Are you going to lecture me again?” she asked.

  “Lecture you?” He furrowed his brow. “Why in God’s name would I lecture you?”

  “I only mean to be kind, you know. If it is pity, well, what of it? Is it so wrong recognize hardship and wish to ease it? But if you are angry with me, by all means, frank the letter yourself. I don’t particularly care who pays for it, so long as your mother is happy.”

  “I—” He stared up at the ceiling. His lips twitched. “You would see it that way, wouldn’t you? Where I see pity, you see kindness. But I think I like your way of seeing it better. Perhaps you’re right, and they are one and the same, in the right hands. No, love. I’m not going to lecture you.”

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Then why are you looking at me so fiercely? If you don’t want to lecture me, what do you want?”

  “This,” he whispered, and tugged her against him.

  And since “this” was a kiss, Claire was very happy.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Colin arrived in London to find his likeness in every shop window on Fleet Street. Discovering Scipio’s treasure had made him famous—which was a good deal better than infamous, as Deb pointed out, and much less likely to land him in prison.

  He was inclined to agree with his friend…until that afternoon, when Chatwell announced that Colin would be knighted by the Prince Regent in one week’s time, after which there would be a ball to celebrate.

  Colin did not mind the knighthood, but he minded the ball very much. “Is that really necessary?”

  The marchioness gave him a look of fire and brimstone.

  “Of course I am delighted to attend,” he said hastily.

  Except, he remembered his first dance with Claire quite clearly. It had been magnificent, but also nothing short of a disaster.

  Good God.

  Good God.

  Somehow, in all his careful planning with Claire’s father, he had neglected this important detail. To keep her safe, she must stay in London. But she would never be happy here if he was a constant source of embarrassment. Which was exactly what would happen in precisely one week, because he did not know how to dance.

  He thought frantically.

  He only had one friend in England, and that was Nicholas Eastwood. He would have to do.

  He quickly found Nick at home and poured out the story. “You must help me. Teach me to be a gentleman.”

  “How the devil would I know anything about that?” Nick asked, incredulous. “I’m certainly no gentleman.”

  “Not in spirit, perhaps, but at least you know when to wear gloves.”

  “Always,” Nick supplied promptly. “Gloves are always required.”

  Of course they were. Damn it all, but Colin hated this world.

  “As it happens, I am on my way to see Abingdon,” Nick continued. “Come with me. He might be of some use to you.”

  But upon hearing Colin’s plight, Abingdon burst into laughter. “You want me to teach you how to survive a ball? I’m afraid I never quite learned the knack of it myself.”

  Colin buried his face in his hands. “I’m doomed.”

  “No, no,” Abingdon said, but his doubtful tone betrayed his true thoughts. “We’ll get you through this. I am a terrible dancer, but I can at least explain what fork to use when you sit down to dinner. Nick can teach you a few dance steps, I think.”

  “They might be wrong,” Nick said. “With the exception of the waltz, which I’m quite good at.”

  Abingdon tapped his chin, frowning thoughtfully. Then his eyes lit up, and he snapped his fingers. “Do you know who could help us? Wessex.”

  Nick groaned. “God, no.”

  Colin looked between the brothers. “Who is Wessex?”

  “An old friend, and a duke,” Abingdon said. “His Grace is exactly what every gentleman aspires to be.”

  “His Grace is an ass,” Nick grumbled.

  “My lord,” a footman interrupted loudly, his voice tinged with desperation. “His Grace, the Duke of Wessex is here.”

  They turned. Colin half rose from his chair, unsure if standing was proper or not. Abingdon was already standing when the duke entered, but Nick had not moved a muscle from his seat.

  “So, it’s true, then,” Nick said in awed tones. “The devil really does appear when you call his name.”

  Wessex accepted the insult with obvious delight. “Did I hear correctly? Are my services required?”

  The man was, from the tip of his polished Hessians to the top of his impeccably groomed black head, every inch an aristocrat. Colin couldn’t help but wonder how long it had taken the duke to dress this morning. The extravagant knot of his cravat alone must have cost him half an hour.

  Was this what Colin would become in London? He felt his own cravat inexplicably tighten around his neck, as if tied by unseen hands.

  “Smith, a tray of sandwiches and tea,” Abingdon said.

  Colin looked at him, startled. “Pardon?”

  “Not you. The footman.” Abingdon gestured to the footman, looking embarrassed.

  Colin merely nodded. It was no shame to him that his name was too common to be borne by a member of the peerage. Better to share a name with a thousand servants than bear the name of his father.

  The duke’s gaze landed on him. He cocked his head, assessing. “Smith, is it? You look familiar. Oh, yes, I remember now. From the papers—and the windows. Lady Claire’s fortune hunter.”

  “Treasure hunter,” he corrected between gritted teeth.

  “Is it?” The duke’s tone was bland but his eyes sharp. “My mistake.”

  Colin glowered. “It certainly was.”

  There was a glint of amusement in the other man’s eyes. “And what can I do for you, Mr. Smith, Hunter of Treasures?”

  It went against Colin’s better judgment to ask this man for a favor. God only knew what the duke would demand in return. But for Claire, anything. “Teach me to dance.”

  “Ah.” The duke’s eyes lit up. “As it happens, I am an excellent dancer. How fortunate for you that I should be here at the opportune moment.”

  Nick rolled his eyes. “You are always about, whether the moment is opportune or not. It was bound to work in our favor at some time, although it never has before.”

  Wessex arched one dark brow. “Your wife might disagree.”

  Nick’s expression turned thunderous, and for a moment Colin feared there would be bloodshed. But Abingdon merely sighed and stepped between the two fools with the air of a man who had done so a hundred t
imes.

  “Gentlemen, if we might keep our attention on the matter at hand. Colin has only a week to learn to do well what took me years to learn badly.”

  Wessex held up his hands. “Of course. Where is Lady Abingdon? Perhaps she can assist us on the pianoforte.”

  “She’s with Miss Benton. I don’t expect her back for another hour.”

  Something shifted in the duke’s expression. “Shall we—”

  “No, we shall not,” Abingdon said firmly. “No schemes, Wessex. We can make do without their assistance. I’ll take the pianoforte.”

  “Oh, very well,” Wessex said sulkily. “Something lively, if you please. Eastwood, you will do the female steps. Now, Mr. Smith, you are to watch me closely and—”

  “I don’t know the female steps,” Nick broke in.

  Wessex pinched the bridge of his nose. “Devil take it. Must I be all things? Abingdon, bring me a shawl.” Once the shawl was procured, the duke knotted it around his waist to form a skirt. “We will begin with the quadrille. The dance is done with four couples, but you will simply have to use your imagination, Mr. Smith.”

  Colin nodded. If he could manage to pretend a duke in a shawl was his partner for the evening, he could imagine a whole host of things.

  “For the quadrille, we dance in a square and there are five parts,” Wessex continued. “Le Pantalon, L’été, La Poule, La Pastourelle, and the Finale.”

  Colin furrowed his brow in concentration. Then he repeated the names back perfectly.

  Surprise flashed in the duke’s eyes. “Very good. I must say, you are more apt than I was inclined to believe.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” If the duke noticed the sarcasm, he ignored it.

  “Eastwood and I will perform the first part. Watch, and for God’s sake, pay attention.” Wessex clapped his hands. “Abingdon, the music.”

  They began.

  “Do you see what Eastwood is doing?” Wessex asked as he pranced forward. “He is slightly off from the music. You must feel the music, Mr. Smith, if you are truly to dance. See how I use my skirt? Ladies make use of their shawl or their skirt to enhance the elegance of their dance. But a man has no such opportunity, alas, so you must depend on your own form for flair.”