“Something sensible, then.” He sipped more champagne. “I’m astonished.”
“Are you?” She ignored the insult to her reading choices. “What book did you read in the past month?”
“I read fifteen. Shall I list the titles?”
“Good heavens, no. We’d be here all night.”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “Was the book on architecture the only thing you read in the past month?”
“Not in the least. I pored over the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée, for one. It was rather thin on information about architecture, but it did have some lovely fashion plates. Those all had titles. Shall I recite them?”
“Do spare me, I beg you.”
But she could see the smile tugging at his lips. It always delighted her when she could amuse him. And if she actually got a laugh out of him, she considered it a personal triumph.
She was about to offer a particularly witty bon mot about books when two young ladies approached them. She’d met them earlier at the Palace. What were their names again? Oh, right—Lady Hypatia and Miss Clarke.
“Lady Gwyn,” Miss Clarke said with a veiled glance at Joshua. “Lady Hypatia and I were just saying how impressed we were with your presentation to the queen today. You didn’t take one step awry. Meanwhile, I nearly dropped my bracelet in Her Majesty’s lap, and Lady Hypatia stepped on her own train when she was backing out.”
“But I didn’t fall,” Lady Hypatia put in. She looked at Joshua with blatant curiosity. “I caught myself in time. You, on the other hand, were poise itself, Lady Gwyn.”
It was clear they were angling for an introduction to Joshua. That didn’t amuse Gwyn quite as much as she would have thought, probably because women had been asking her about him all evening. It had become rather annoying.
She considered letting these two dangle a bit longer, but that seemed cruel. So she introduced them to Joshua, who managed something very nearly like a smile, about the best any stranger could hope for from him.
“Aren’t you dancing this evening, Major?” Lady Hypatia asked.
Gwyn caught her breath. What was wrong with the chit? Didn’t she realize how rude her question was? The only men allowed to have canes or walking sticks in a ballroom were those who actually needed them. Obviously, Joshua qualified.
“Afraid not,” he said tightly. “I’m on duty.” He leaned pointedly on his cane, but the two ladies were apparently too smitten by his good looks and fine uniform—or too heedless of what the cane must mean—to notice anything else.
“On duty!” Miss Clarke surveyed the supper room, then lowered her voice. “Are you guarding someone in here?”
He briefly looked taken aback. Then a sly glint appeared in his eyes as he met Gwyn’s gaze. “I am indeed.”
Gwyn glared at him. Surely he wouldn’t dare say who. If word got out that she had a bodyguard, tongues would wag and Mama would be most unhappy.
“Can you say who it is?” Lady Hypatia asked, furtively looking around the room. “It must be someone very important. One of the dukes perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” he echoed.
Miss Clarke eyed him suspiciously. “I think you’re bamming us. You’re not on duty at all, are you, Major?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny it,” he said.
Lady Hypatia leaned in. “Tell us this, then. Have you fought in very many battles?”
“Quite a few, actually. The Battle of Berlin, the Battle of Prussia, and the Battle of Constantinople, among others.”
Gwyn lifted her gaze heavenward. How he managed to keep a straight face while spewing such balderdash was anyone’s guess.
“Were they bloody?” Lady Hypatia asked, wide-eyed.
“Oh yes.” Joshua finished his champagne. “I saw the enemy rip out the heart of one of our Royal Marines and eat it right there.”
The two ladies gasped.
That only seemed to encourage him. “There was death as far as the eye could see. The ocean reeked of blood.”
“How awful!” Miss Clarke said in a tone that said she found it fascinating.
Already annoyed that the ladies were looking at him worshipfully, Gwyn decided she’d had enough. “Pay Major Wolfe no mind. He’s making all of that up. There are no such battles, and certainly not any that included the Royal Marines.”
Joshua flashed her a look of mock outrage. “You doubt me, Lady Gwyn? I am deeply hurt.”
“Hurt in the head, perhaps,” she shot back. “Because Berlin is landlocked, which makes it impossible for you to have fought a maritime engagement there. Prussia is an entire country, so that battle would have been sizable indeed.”
His lips twitched again. Clearly, he was fighting a smile. “And Constantinople? Are you claiming there wasn’t a Battle of Constantinople?”
“Not at all. But it took place over six hundred years ago. So unless you’ve found the secret to immortality, you couldn’t have fought in it. As Miss Clarke said, you are bamming us. I dare you to deny it.”
“And if I don’t? What shall you do then?” His eyes were twinkling now. “Court-martial me? Have me thrown in gaol?”
“I’ll have you thrown in the coat closet until you sober up,” Gwyn said. “Because only a man who’s foxed would tell such blatant lies.”
He laughed outright. “No one can fool you, can they, Lady Gwyn?”
“Not many can, I confess, and certainly no officers. I learned early on not to trust them. They tend to exaggerate.”
That seemed to sober him. Apparently, he’d caught on that she meant Lionel. Or rather Hazlehurst, who was serving as the substitute for the younger version of Lionel.
The two ladies looked disappointed. They’d swallowed every word of his tales, and now clearly felt foolish. Given that this whole thing had started when they’d rudely asked him about dancing, Gwyn wasn’t inclined to make things easier for them.
It wasn’t because she was jealous. Certainly not. They could have him. One of them might be more successful at capturing his heart. If he even possessed such a thing.
Fortunately, two gentlemen approached just then who were interested in dancing with Lady Hypatia and Miss Clarke. The ladies were more than happy to oblige, leaving Gwyn still standing with Joshua.
As soon as they were gone, she turned on him. “You are almost as incorrigible as Thorn! The Battle of Berlin indeed.” She shook her head. “I would never have thought it of you.”
With a shrug, he let the footman take his empty glass. “I had to get rid of them somehow. They wouldn’t leave. But I confess, I didn’t expect them to be quite so gullible.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “And why were you eager to escape them anyway? They were flirting with you. You’d think you’d find that flattering.”
He steadied his glittering gaze on her. “Trying to marry me off, are you, my lady? Are you and Beatrice working together now to arrange my future happiness?”
The supper room suddenly seemed far too quiet. “Not with either of those two. As you say, they aren’t very bright. You deserve someone more intelligent.” She forced herself to say the next words. “And there are plenty of clever women here. Women who’ve asked me about you.”
That seemed to catch him by surprise. “Who’s bamming whom now?”
“I mean it. They want to know if you’re eligible and why you look so serious and whether you intend to marry.” An acid note crept into her voice, try as she might to restrain it. “Oh, and they’re curious about why you keep watching me. They worry that it’s because you and I have an understanding.”
“And what did you tell them?”
“I told them that as the grandson of a duke you’re eminently eligible, that you look so serious because you’re a serious fellow, and that you only intend to marry if you find a woman who suits you.” Which she obviously did not.
“I meant,” he said sharply, “what did you tell them about our ‘understanding’?”
“Oh. The truth, of course. That we have n
one.”
He cocked one brow. “So how did you explain why I keep watching you?”
She fought to keep a straight face. “I told them you were madly in love with me . . . but it was unrequited, of course.”
“Of course,” he said coldly.
Irritated that he could believe she’d lie about such a thing, she decided to spin out the tale further just to see how long it took before he caught on. “I told them you are sure that if you follow me around like a lapdog, I will one day—Damn!”
“You will one day damn who?” he asked.
“That coxcomb coming our way. Sorry, but I need to escape. He hasn’t seen me yet.” She walked toward the far end of the supper room, where stood a set of French doors.
Joshua kept pace with her. “Wherever you go, I go. Especially if it’s outdoors, where it would be easier for Malet to snatch you.”
“Fine. But only if you don’t alert that coxcomb to where I’m headed. We can hide in the gardens until he tires of looking for me and returns to the ballroom.”
They slipped through the doors and out onto the terrace. Beyond it were the gardens, reachable by a few steps down. She walked toward them.
Joshua followed, taking in the gardens with a careful eye. “Greycourt certainly knows how to spend his money well. I’ve never seen a property as large as this in London.”
“It’s Grey’s forte—buying properties and turning them into something greater, with judicious management and good investing.” She lifted her skirts as she descended the steps. “Your sister married well.”
“Trust me, I’m aware of that.” He went down the steps after her, though at a slower pace. “And he must really love her. It’s the only way I can see him choosing to marry a woman with no prospects.”
“He doesn’t care about her prospects. He only cares about her.”
As if realizing they were veering into subjects he never wanted to discuss, he asked, “Why are you trying to avoid this coxcomb anyway?”
“Because he fancies himself a wit and keeps going on and on about my rosy cheeks and my golden locks.”
Joshua blinked. “Your hair is red.”
“I know! To be fair, it’s a bit hard to tell colors by candlelight—”
“Not that hard. Good God, what’s wrong with the fellow?”
“Apparently, the same thing that has been wrong with all my dance partners this evening.” She paused to gaze back at the French doors, but she didn’t see the coxcomb, thank God. “Judging from the balderdash they were spouting, they have brains made of cheese.”
Joshua laughed.
“Shh! I don’t want him to hear us.” Though she hated to stifle Joshua. She’d had two laughs in one night out of him. “He’ll come down here and ask me to dance, and you know the rules—I’m not allowed to say no unless I mean to sit out the rest of the evening. Then again, that might not be such a bad idea. My family keeps tossing dance partners at me in hopes that one of them will stick, but they all have terrible taste in men.”
“I’ll tell you what—if the coxcomb finds us out here, I’ll say that you’ve already promised me the next set.”
She paused in scanning the terrace to stare at Joshua. “You would dance with me?”
“Don’t be absurd. I’d make a fool of myself. But if he’s as unobservant as Lady Hypatia and Miss Clarke—and he sounds as if he is—he might not realize I can’t dance with a bad leg and a cane.”
The idea of his dancing with her took hold. She didn’t want to examine too closely why. “You could manage the minuet, I daresay. It’s slow and requires a man to put his hands out anyway, so you could use your cane without it looking too odd.”
“Thank you, but I’d rather not hobble around the floor for all the world to see. Besides, they’ve already danced the minuet, and if I remember right, it’s only danced once at a ball.”
She cocked her head. “Did you used to dance, before you were wounded?”
“I did, though I had few opportunities. There aren’t many women aboard a man-of-war. I could only dance while we were in port.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“For the most part. After being cooped up on a ship for weeks with a lot of foul-smelling sailors and marines, it was wonderful to kick up one’s heels with a sweet-scented woman.” His gaze on her turned suspicious. “Why do you ask?”
“Because now that you’ve mentioned the possibility of your dancing, I consider it a challenge to see you do so. After all, we’re alone out here, so no one will care if you aren’t perfect at it.”
“Gwyn—” he began in a warning tone.
“I’m thinking the waltz might work,” she said, tapping her finger against her chin.
“What the hell is a waltz?”
“It’s a dance in three-quarter time that’s quite popular in Berlin and Vienna. And unlike so many English dances, it allows you to hold on to your partner with both hands for the entire time. That would be the best of the dance choices, I think, though not out here on uneven ground.”
Taking his hand in hers, she began to walk along a path through the gardens that lay parallel to the house. “Come with me, if you dare. I’m going to teach you to waltz.”
Chapter Thirteen
What the devil was she up to? As she wound through the gardens, Joshua prayed she wasn’t trying to leave the grounds. Given the note she’d sent Malet earlier in the day, Joshua would have to put his foot down about her heading anywhere beyond Greycourt’s property. And right now he didn’t want to get into an argument with her.
She was holding his hand. She was complaining about her suitors. He liked both things better than he should, especially after an evening of being forced to watch her dance with every fool in creation. Of fighting to keep his jealousy under control when all he wanted was to punch her partners in the face.
And thus prove to Fitzgerald that he was unequal to the task of spying on anyone.
Damnation! He had sworn not to become besotted with her. What was wrong with him? He knew better. He had to be careful, had to not let her manipulate him into going along with her plans, whatever those were. It may not seem like it sometimes, but she was not his employer. Thornstock was. And Fitzgerald, hopefully.
“Where are we heading?” he asked her, more gruffly than he’d intended.
“To the orangery.”
Relief coursed through him. He’d forgotten Beatrice’s mention of Greycourt’s orangery, a separate building that could be entered from the garden or the house.
“There, we can have both privacy and a nice stone floor on which to dance,” Gwyn added.
He groaned. The last thing he needed was privacy around her. His record on that score hadn’t been good so far. He didn’t know which was worse: being alone with her while taking her in his arms, or attempting to dance and falling flat on his face at her feet.
Still, God save him, the prospect of holding her for an entire dance tantalized him. Even knowing she was secretly corresponding with Malet didn’t keep him from wanting her. So he’d have to use their privacy to his advantage.
After all, two could play her game. She wanted to lull him into letting her do whatever she pleased? Fine. He would let her. It might be the only way to get to the bottom of what was going on between her and Malet. If he asked her flat out, she wouldn’t tell him. She’d already had ample chance today to tell him that Malet had corresponded with her. But if he strengthened their intimacy, she might begin to trust him enough to confide in him.
He snorted. Now he was lying to himself. Forget strengthening their intimacy—what he really wanted was to be intimate with her. Even the thought of it made him hard.
Damn, they’d better reach that orangery soon, before they ran into one of her many suitors—or worse yet, one of her brothers—who might take note of the decided bulge in his breeches.
He needed to take his mind off desiring her. “So tell me, what are some of the other pieces of ‘balderdash’ gentlemen have ‘spouted’ at you
this evening?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. My eyes are like emeralds—”
“They are.”
“And my lips are like cherries—”
“Once again, they are. So far, I cannot fault your suitors’ flatteries, which sound more like compliments.”
“Come now.” She eyed him askance. “You can’t tell me you would blather such unimaginative observations.”
“No, I would merely call you something ‘big and white and round.’”
“What are you talking about?”
He raised a brow. “This morning? When I called you Luna, goddess of the moon and queen of the stars? That was your response.”
She winced. “Oh, dear, that was very bad of me. And once I thought about it and realized you weren’t comparing me to the moon itself, I rather liked it. No woman should complain about being called a goddess and a queen.” Her voice turned acid. “It’s certainly better than being told I have lovely, childbearing hips.”
“Someone actually said that to you?” he asked, incredulous.
“While he was dancing with me. I swear it.”
He shook his head. “Even I have the good sense not to say something like that when trying to woo a woman.”
“I should hope so,” she said with a smile.
Her smile would melt stone, and he was not as immune to it as he should be.
They had reached the orangery now. She let them in by the garden door and hurried over to the stove that made the orangery cozy and warm even on a chilly spring night. Igniting a piece of kindling off the stove fire, she went around lighting candles. He would have preferred to be in the dark with her, but he didn’t want to alarm her by saying so.
Clearly nervous, she was chattering about the architectural wonders of the orangery—how Greycourt had replaced the slate roof with glazed glass and how he used stoves for heating it in winter rather than open fires because it was better for the oranges.
He barely heard the rest. He was too busy drinking his fill of her in a gown that was probably a bit fast for an eighteen-year-old but suited a woman of her age perfectly. Despite the virginal white, the bodice was seductive as hell, cut low enough to show the swells of her bosom. And it had this line of gold ribbon or embroidery or something that swept from just below her right breast—where the high waist was—down diagonally to end at the left hem of the gown, where it then circled the hem a couple of times.
The Bachelor Page 13
