Much Ado About You

by Eloisa James

  “How could you know after nine years?” she asked. “Perhaps she is longing to see you. If she is bedridden a great deal of the time, I’m certain that you don’t have opportunities to meet accidentally.”

  “We live merely two houses apart. If Mrs. Felton had the inclination to see me, it would be a moment’s work to send me a message,” Lucius remarked.

  She looked shocked at that. An innocent, this Scottish girl. Probably she would be a huge success on the market: there were few enough ladies with her beauty combined with that bone-deep sense of honesty.

  “Two houses apart? And you don’t speak?”

  “Precisely,” Lucius said briskly. “But surely you are correct. Perhaps one of these days we shall meet accidentally, and all will be well.” He wasn’t going to tell some chit of a girl that he had bought a house in St. James’s Square precisely so that such meetings would happen. He had never told a soul how many times his mother had indeed accidentally encountered her only son…and let her gaze slide away as if she’d encountered a particularly repellent rodent.

  Miss Essex appeared the stubborn sort, though, and leaned toward him to make another comment. Luckily, Lady Clarice commanded both their attentions.

  “My son’s lovely future wife will be visiting us tomorrow,” she was saying. “I am persuaded that you know her, Mr. Felton, since you are quite cultured, are you not? Miss Pythian-Adams is quite the most cultivated young lady of the hour. Apparently the Maestro of the Opera House remarked that Miss Pythian-Adams has a voice to rival Francesca Cuzzoni!”

  “I’m afraid that my reputation for cultivation must have been exaggerated,” Lucius said, as a footman placed turtle soup before his place.

  Tess stole a glance at him. Mr. Felton clearly considered their conversation about his family to be over. She didn’t believe for a moment that his mother didn’t wish to effect a reconciliation: the poor woman probably dampened her pillow every night, longing for her cruel-hearted son.

  One only had to take a look at the line of his jaw to know that Mr. Felton’s pride was as fierce as the north wind. If he inherited that trait from his father, it was no wonder the family was split asunder.

  Then Lady Clarice’s voice caught her attention again, and Tess realized with a shudder that it was Imogen who was receiving the brunt of Lady Clarice’s description of her son’s betrothed. Lady Clarice must have caught the glances that Imogen kept sending Maitland.

  She had captured the attention of the entire table now, although her comments were still markedly addressed to Imogen. According to her future mother-in-law, Miss Pythian-Adams had the most superb carriage, the most intelligent mind, and the most exquisite sensibilities of any living young woman.

  “She sounds charming,” Imogen said, clutching her glass so tightly that Tess hoped it wouldn’t break.

  “Oh, she is,” Maitland put in. “Miss Pythian-Adams is quite, quite charming. Any woman with five thousand pounds a year is, by definition, a dazzler.”

  There was an unholy edge to his voice that made Tess uneasy. Surely that wasn’t an appropriate thing to say about one’s betrothed?

  “Dearest,” Lady Clarice said to her son, “that was unworthy of you. While it is true that Miss Pythian-Adams is quite fortunate in having such a generous dowry—left to her by her maternal grandmother, the Duchess of Bestel—your lovely fiancée is far more than merely an heiress. Miss Pythian-Adams is cultured in every way. I declare, I have been all a ruffle, thinking what I can do to keep such a cultivated young lady amused during this visit! It’s not as if I could teach her a new tatting stitch, after all; she has had her sketches of the Roman Coliseum printed in The Ladies’ Magazine.”

  Imogen was holding up remarkably well. “What an honor,” she commented, taking a deep draught of champagne.

  “I don’t suppose you had superior tutors in the art of sketching up in Scotland,” Lady Clarice commented kindly. “Miss Pythian-Adams combines true ability with the very best instruction. I’ve heard her sketches compared to those of the great Michevolo himself!”

  “I believe you may be referring to Michelangelo,” her son put in. He was getting a tight-lipped look that reminded Tess of the petulant tempers he indulged in when his horse didn’t perform as he wished at the track.

  Mr. Felton leaned slightly toward her, and said, “Alas, it appears that the course of true love is not quite smooth.”

  “A cliché,” she told him.

  “I didn’t say that it never runs smooth,” he said. “But I stand corrected, Miss Essex, and shall quote you no more Shakespeare.” His eyes had a wicked twinkle to them. Probably because Mr. Felton’s place had been added later, the footmen had placed his chair at an improperly close distance to her own. She felt as if his hard physique was positively towering over her. The sensation was not quite pleasant: it was rather unnerving, in fact.

  Tess pointedly turned her gaze back to Lady Clarice, who was still talking of Miss Pythian-Adams’s visit. “She must see the ruins at Silchester. After all, it is one of the very finest Roman ruins, and so close to here. I’m quite certain that she will be able to regale me with its provenance and—and all manner of interesting facts about it!”

  Her son cut in with an acid comment. “I suspect you are no bluestocking, are you, Miss Imogen?” he asked. “There’s nothing more tedious than a woman with her nose in a book.”

  Tess was certain that Mr. Felton was still looking at her; it was as if she could feel his eyes on her face. She turned her head and was instantly caught by his gaze. His eyes were indigo blue and curious, with something so intense about them that she felt it almost like a blow.

  “I’m afraid that my sisters and I have had little opportunity—” Imogen began.

  “Of course not,” Lady Clarice broke in. “Raised in the backwoods of Scotland as you were. Why, it’s not fair even to compare a young lady with Miss Pythian-Adams’s refinement and—to be frank—her advantages to a young lady of Miss Imogen’s background.” She beamed at Imogen, although to Tess’s mind there was something of the cat’s greeting to a mouse in her smile. “You are a perfectly charming young lady, my dear, and I cannot allow my son to slight you in this manner.”

  “Lady Clarice,” Rafe said, his voice only slightly slurred, “I have heard the most extraordinary rumor about one of our neighbors. Now surely you can tell me the truth of it…is it indeed the case that Lord Pool has embarked upon elk farming?”

  But Lady Clarice was not to be deterred by such a weak ploy. She gave him a stern glance and returned to the fray. “You see, Draven,” she trumpeted to the table at large, “it wouldn’t do to slight this sweet child by implying that anyone in the ton might compare her to Miss Pythian-Adams. We are not so unkind, not at all! We in the ton accept every gentleman or lady for what he or she is, and we do not judge on the opportunities he or she may not have had.”

  “That is very kind of you, Lady Clarice,” Imogen said bravely, into the curdling moment of silence that followed.

  Draven Maitland stood up with an abrupt scraping of his chair. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said through obviously clenched teeth, “I needs must garner a bit of culture before I grow a day older. Perhaps I can find myself an opera singer.”

  And with that extraordinary bit of impudence, he smashed his way out of the room.

  “One might suppose that he meant that to be a cutting remark,” Mr. Felton said to Tess, imparting to this quite reasonable assessment a degree of disdain that would have made her curl up like a hedgehog had it been applied to her.

  “Perhaps Lord Maitland had an urgent appointment,” she suggested with no conviction.

  He threw her an amused glance. “As I understand it, his mother holds the purse strings and has selected a cultivated bride in an effort to overcome the influence of the turf. One can only assume after this display that he doesn’t agree with her tactics. Or,” he added thoughtfully, “one might conclude that cultivation is wasted on the man.”

  Lady Claric
e was gently patting her mouth with a handkerchief. “My son,” she said, in a clear, carrying voice, “has an artistic temperament. I’m afraid that sometimes his nerves get the better of him. But I expect that marriage to Miss Pythian-Adams will calm his tempestuous nature. She understands the artistic nature since she has one herself.”

  Suddenly Rafe leaned in Tess’s direction, and said, “You four already know Maitland, don’t you? That’s right…you said—no, Imogen said…” His voice trailed off as he looked down the table at Imogen. She was looking quietly at her plate, but there was a little smile playing around her mouth that said volumes.

  Tess couldn’t think what to say.

  Rafe blinked at her. “I gather that your sister Imogen was not competing with Annabel to become a duchess?”

  Tess bit her lip.

  “Damnation, if this guardian business doesn’t look like more work than I anticipated!” Rafe muttered.

  “Mr. Felton, why are you visiting the depths of Hampshire?” Lady Clarice asked. Her customary arch tone was a little strained—one must suppose that she felt the stress of her son’s departure—but she seemed determined to avoid comment on it.

  Mr. Felton put down his fork. “There is a race at Silchester in a few days. I intend to run two horses. I generally bring my horses down a week before a race and allow Rafe’s stable master to baby them.”

  “Rafe? Rafe?” Lady Clarice said querulously. “Oh. You mean His Grace. I am afraid that I simply cannot accustom myself to the easy manners of this generation.”

  “I’m afraid it is my idiosyncrasy rather than Lucius’s lack of manners,” Rafe said. “I abhor being addressed by my title.”

  “Lucius? Ah, our dear Mr. Felton,” Lady Clarice said.

  Tess watched, rather surprised. She had formed the impression that Lady Clarice would have nothing to do with those who were untitled.

  Rafe bent his head close to hers. “Lucius is blessed with an income the size of the Prince Regent’s. There’s always the chance that she’ll be led astray by his estate and let go her dreams of being a duchess.”

  “Stop funning!” Tess whispered. “She might hear you!”

  “The excitement of being able to make sisterly confidences has likely gone to my head,” Rafe told her, not even bothering to hush his voice.

  “That, or the brandy you’ve tucked away,” Mr. Felton put in.

  So Rafe was drinking brandy! He had finished the glass given him when they sat down, and he was well near down in the next glass. But to Tess’s mind, the only sign that their guardian might be the slightest bit daffy was that his voice was even more growly than earlier, and he’d stopped flinging back the hair from his eyes. Instead, he just sat back, long legs spread before him, a lock of brown hair over his forehead, pushed back from the table in a most unducal fashion.

  Lady Clarice leaned closer to him and smiled in a way that set Tess’s teeth on edge. “You poor man,” she cooed. “You’re holding up under the strain of this invasion of females so well.”

  “Females never bother me,” Rafe growled, “only ladies.”

  Tess swallowed a grin.

  “Do you know your guardian well?” came a voice from her left.

  “Not well,” she said, turning reluctantly to Mr. Felton. “I gather you have been friends for years.”

  “Yes.”

  Tess could see out of the corner of her eye that Rafe was waving his glass in the air, just a trifle unsteadily.

  The butler, Brinkley, was making his way toward the top of the table with a decanter in hand and a disapproving expression on his face.

  “He handles his liquor well,” Mr. Felton said coolly, “but you might as well understand immediately, Miss Essex, that Rafe is not one to greet the evening without a copious draught of brandy.”

  Tess’s eyes narrowed. Felton’s voice had the slight edge that she recognized; just so did the local nobility talk about her father’s ever-failing stables. It made her bristle all over. “I myself find abstemiousness remarkably tedious,” she said, picking up her champagne and finishing the glass.

  “Your guardian will be euphoric to learn of your compatibility.” Felton was obviously the sort of man who thought a sardonic expression was good enough for all occasions. He was overly large as well. Why, he must be all of fifteen stone and it looked to be pure muscle. He likely rode a stallion. Even his shoulders were a third again as wide as their guardian’s.

  Thanks to being reared in a house cluttered by gear and periodically swept by groups of horse-mad gentlemen, Tess could spot a horseman at ten paces. When the dibs were in tune, and the horses were running sweet—well, then a horseman’s life was beautiful. But when a horse had to be put down, or the downs were too mired for galloping, or—

  She shook off the memory of her father’s fits of despair. The shortest way to inoculate herself against this Adonis—nay, any man—was to ask him about his livestock. There was nothing more tedious than a man in the fit of equine adoration. “Do you have a large breeding program, sir?”

  “Small but select. I fear I give my stables far too much importance in my life.”

  Precisely. “I would adore to hear about your stables,” she continued, giving him a dewy-eyed glance. Now he would launch into a fetlock-by-fetlock description and—

  “Seven horses,” he said. “Would you like them categorized by color, by year, or—” and he paused—“by gender?”

  “By all means, use whatever convention you wish,” Tess retorted, forgetting to look dewy-eyed.

  “The females first, then,” he said. “Prudence is a filly of two years: nicely built with a graceful neck. Chestnut. Her eyelashes are so long that I wonder if she can see to race.”

  Tess blinked. His descriptions were certainly different from her father’s, which would have run along the lines of the filly’s parentage, markings, and breeding. She doubted Papa had ever noticed a horse’s eyelashes in his life.

  “Minuet is a filly too,” Mr. Felton continued, his eyes on Tess’s face. “She’s a beauty, sleek and black, with one of those tails that flows behind her when she runs, like water going downhill. She’s a thief, and likes nothing better than to steal a bit of grass or corn.”

  “Do you allow her to eat grass, then?” Tess asked.

  In reply, he asked, “Did your father have a specific eating program for his horseflesh?”

  “They were only allowed to eat oats,” Tess said. “Oats and apples. We used to make apples into apple-mash because the horses got so tired of plain apples. Papa was convinced that apples were key to good digestion, and that would make the horses run faster.”

  Lucius thought that diet was absurd, if not abusive. Miss Essex might have agreed; she had lowered her eyes and was picking at her food with all the interest of an overfed sparrow.

  For his part, Lucius had now distinguished Rafe’s wards one from the others. Annabel sparkled; she dazzled the eye and ear with her honey voice and honey hair. Imogen was like a shock to the system. Her beauty was paired with a pair of eyes so ardent that he was uncomfortable even looking at her and felt more than grateful that he wasn’t Maitland. That much emotion directed across the table must make a man queasy.

  But Miss Essex—or Tess, as Rafe was calling her—had as much beauty as the other two, and it was paired with a dry sense of humor that hid itself behind propriety. He couldn’t quite decide whether her humor or her mouth was the more remarkable. She had the look of the others about her; the sisters shared retroussé noses, high cheekbones, pointed chins, and thickly fringed eyelashes.

  But Tess’s mouth was unique. Her lips were plump and of a lush, deep red. But the outrageous detail, the thing that made her mouth like no mouth he’d seen before, was the tiny, scandalously sensual black mole that marked just where a dimple might be. Hers was a hussy’s mouth, though not that of a common dasher. No, obviously virginal and obviously proper Miss Essex had the mouth of a woman who would become coquette to a king, a mouth by which a courtesan could m
ake herself celebrated on two continents.

  Lucius shifted in his seat.

  Thank goodness Derwent hadn’t unpacked those bags. He was no sacrifice to be offered at the altar of Rafe’s obligations to his wards. Although, in the presence of Miss Essex, one could almost imagine—

  Lucius came to himself with a start. What in God’s name was he doing? Hadn’t he decided, after last year, to forgo the dubious pleasures of marriage?

  He didn’t have enough to offer a woman, and especially a woman like this. She was laughing again, a husky laugh that didn’t belong to a virgin. The very sound sent warning prickles up his spine.

  He turned away.

  Chapter

  7

  Late that night

  “I’ve quite made up my mind to marry him,” Annabel said. She was curled up against one of the posters of Tess’s bed, wearing a chemise so worn it had been consigned to bed clothing. She tugged the chemise over her bare toes: none of the sisters had owned bed slippers for years.

  For once, Josie didn’t respond with sarcasm. “I suppose you mean the duke?” she asked. She was curled against the opposite bedpost, a blanket pulled around her shoulders. She had clearly had a good cry after supper, but everyone was tactfully ignoring her swollen eyes.

  “I think you could do better,” Imogen put in. She had burrowed straight into Tess’s bed and was curled like a sleek little cat against the pillows. “Our guardian obviously drinks more than he ought, and he’s lost his figure. To be blunt, Holbrook is a sot.”

  “That’s extremely harsh,” Tess objected. “But while I hate to disappoint you, Annabel, it is my definite opinion that Rafe does not mean to marry.”

  “I was referring not to our esteemed guardian, but to the Earl of Mayne,” Annabel said. “After watching Holbrook single-handedly empty a decanter of brandy, I decided I want a husband who is not yet pickled.”

  “Tess, don’t you think that Mayne deserves someone nicer than Annabel?” Josie inquired innocently.