What a Lady Wants

by Victoria Alexander

  “My apologies,” he said in a clipped tone. “Apparently my indignities were not complete until now, and I am to be forced to hobble through the streets with only one shoe.”

  “Divine retribution, do you think? For your sins?”

  For a moment only silence greeted her comment. Then a reluctant chuckle drifted up to her. “Undoubtedly.”

  With that he sauntered across the lawn, and a moment later, blended into the shrubbery at the base of the wall. He would have no problem finding the gate now.

  She pulled a chair onto the balcony, sank down into it, rested her elbows on the cold stone balustrade, and propped her chin in her hands. This—he—truly had had all the elements of an adventure. There’d been excitement and not knowing what might happen next and a definite hint of danger. And oddly enough, her hand was still warm where he had kissed it. She couldn’t help but wonder how his lips might feel.

  Life with him would certainly never be staid and boring and ordinary.

  Felicity smiled slowly and rose to her feet. She searched the sky and found the star she had wished on.

  “I should start by saying how grateful I am for your prompt attention to my wish. He shall do nicely. Certainly he needs some reformation, a great deal of work, really, but that shall add to the challenge and, frankly, the fun. And I have no doubt he will be fun. Oh, he’s not exactly what I’d hoped for. All that questionable morals business. But he does seem to have a certain sense of honor, twisted yes, but it is there. He shall definitely never be dull.

  “Now then, if you could see your way clear for one more tiny, insignificant request.” She drew a deep breath and smiled hopefully. “I should very much like to know his name.”

  Two

  What a gentleman really wants is the freedom to do as he chooses, when he chooses, for as long as he chooses.

  The Honorable Mr. Nigel Cavendish

  “So.” Sinclair stood with a glass of champagne in his hand and a look of amusement in his eye. “You were rescued by a little girl.”

  “I wouldn’t call her a little girl,” Nigel said casually and studied the swirl of dancers moving to the familiar strains of a popular Strauss waltz. He hadn’t particularly wanted to attend to night’s ball and was here only at his mother’s insistence. She had pointed out that it was best to appear in public as soon as possible after incidents such as the one three nights ago with Lord and Lady Pomfrey to defuse the possibility of scandal. Or, rather, the probability of scandal.

  Nigel had thought he had escaped that misadventure unscathed and unnoticed. After all, Lady Pomfrey certainly would not want her indiscretions ex posed. And as Lord Pomfrey had returned home straight from the arms of an actress of considerable reputation that had nothing to do with her skills on the stage, he too would wish to avoid public exposure. Nigel had simply, once again, failed to take into account how quickly information passed from one house hold to another thanks to London’s vast community of servants. Maids and footmen, valets and cooks all derived great amusement from the antics of the upper classes. Nigel bit back an unrepentant grin. He certainly did his part to entertain the masses. Indeed, he considered it a sort of responsibility. Noblesse oblige, as it were.

  “She came up nearly to my nose, far too tall to be too young. And she was extraordinarily bright or perhaps simply precocious.” Nigel chuckled at the memory. “She gave as good as she got. I warned her against allowing men of questionable morals into her bedchamber, and she accused me of being a man of questionable morals.”

  The American laughed. “She was bright.”

  “Indeed she was. And most amusing as well.” In truth, if the circumstances had been different, Nigel would have quite enjoyed sparring with the girl. There was something about her he liked. Something beyond her ability to keep her head when confronted with a strange man in the middle of the night in her garden. She obviously had courage, even if misplaced. The girl should have been more cautious.

  Norcroft drew his brows together. “A little girl, you say?”

  “No, I did not say a little girl. Sinclair said a little girl. I said she was young.” Nigel nodded at a cluster of chattering young women. “Younger than the current crop of newly introduced husband hunters, I should think. Probably my youngest sister’s age, sixteen or so, although I admit it was difficult to tell. It was extremely dark. The only reason she caught my attention at all was because she wore a voluminous white gown or robe or something of that nature that fairly glowed in the starlight.”

  “And this was the house directly beside Lord Pomfrey’s?” Norcroft asked.

  Nigel nodded. “To the east.”

  Norcroft stared at him for a moment, then grinned. “That’s Lord Dunbury’s house.”

  Nigel narrowed his gaze. “Why are you smirking like that?”

  “Lord Dunbury’s daughter, his only daughter, his only child, is Lady Felicity Melville.” Norcroft’s grin broadened. “And she is no little girl.”

  Nigel sipped his champagne. “I said she was young.”

  “Young being relative, especially in this case.” Norcroft chuckled.

  Sinclair raised a brow. “How old is she?”

  “I’m not sure exactly.” Norcroft thought for a moment. “In her early twenties, I think.”

  “Utter nonsense.” Nigel scoffed. “I don’t believe you for a moment. I can certainly tell a girl from a woman.”

  “Even in the dark?” Sinclair said.

  Nigel grinned. “Especially in the dark.”

  “Not this time.” Norcroft scanned the crowd, then nudged his friend with his elbow and nodded toward the far side of the dance floor. “That’s her. The woman dancing with Beckham. That’s Lady Felicity.”

  Nigel’s gaze followed his friend’s. Norcroft was right. Lady Felicity was certainly not a girl. She was, as he already knew, tall, and he had surmised the dark color of her hair. He had not suspected the shapeliness of her figure, even if she was a bit slender for his tastes. He couldn’t make out her features at this distance, but there was something in the graceful way she moved that struck him, as if dancing was as natural to her as her next breath. Not that it mattered. She was an unmarried woman—or rather as she was still Lady Felicity Melville, a never married woman—and as such not the type of female that interested him. Not this year. Still, he would like to see her face.

  “How well do you know her?” He directed his words to Norcroft but his gaze remained fixed on Lady Felicity.

  His friend hesitated.

  Nigel slanted him a curious glance. “That well?”

  “No, not at all,” Norcroft said quickly. “Well, that is. In point of fact, I scarcely know her at all although we have been acquainted for years. My mother and hers are friends, and periodically my mother will drop her name as a potential bride.”

  “And you are not interested?”

  “I have never had the opportunity to be interested or not interested. She is pleasant enough, in both appearance and nature, and she’s never said or acted in any overt manner, but I have always come away from our dance or conversation or what-have-you with the vague impression that she found me less than”—Norcroft’s brows drew together in annoyance—“interesting.”

  Sinclair laughed. “Nothing like a woman finding a man boring to dissuade him from furthering his acquaintance.”

  “It does tend to dampen one’s enthusiasm,” Norcroft muttered.

  “I daresay she wouldn’t find me boring,” Nigel murmured, still studying the lady in question. “Introduce me.”

  “Why?” Suspicion sounded in Norcroft’s voice. “She’s not your type.”

  Nigel glanced at the other man. “Why not?”

  “Because she is not married nor has she ever been married,” Norcroft said. “And I am fairly certain she wishes to rectify that.”

  “A virgin looking for a husband? No, not that.” Sinclair shook his head mournfully. “Cavendish has made his views perfectly clear about involvement with virgins. Particularly virgins who
wish to marry, as all well-bred, socially conscious virgins wish to do.”

  “Indeed I have,” Nigel said firmly. “Marriage-minded virgins, as well as members of their families—especially their mothers—are to be avoided at all costs. However, I have no intention of involvement of any kind with this particular virgin beyond a simple conversation. I am curious; there’s nothing more to it than that.” Lady Felicity laughed at something Beckham said, and Nigel wondered what she found amusing. “When I thought she was a girl, her behavior could be excused. Her youth and inexperience precluded her from realizing the danger presented by a man of questionable morals.”

  “A scoundrel, you mean?” Sinclair said. “A rascal? Even a rogue?”

  “All of those and unabashedly so.” Nigel rather liked being known as a scoundrel, rascal, or rogue. In truth, it kept all but the most determined marriage-seeking virgins—and apparently Lady Felicity could be counted among their number—at bay, and kept their mothers at bay as well. At some point, when he was ready for marriage, he was confident his name, wealth, and position would overcome any reluctance caused by his reputation. But that time was far in the future. “What has piqued my curiosity was why a young woman who should certainly have known better given her age did not sound an alarm when she saw me drop into her garden. Or when I approached her balcony. Or when I climbed her trellis.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t know you were a scoundrel?” Sinclair said helpfully.

  Norcroft scoffed. “She saw the man come straight from Lady Pomfrey’s window, with dogs in hot pursuit—”

  “There were no dogs,” Nigel murmured.

  Norcroft ignored him. “Only a scoundrel—indeed a scoundrel of the worst sort—would be in such a position in the first place.”

  “Thank you for putting it so succinctly,” Nigel said wryly.

  Norcroft grinned. “You are most welcome.”

  “Therefore one wonders what our Lady Felicity was thinking, doesn’t one?” Nigel said thoughtfully.

  His friends exchanged glances. Sinclair shrugged. “I don’t.”

  “Neither do I,” Norcroft added firmly.

  “I do. And I intend to find out. A few moments of casual conversation will no doubt satisfy my curiosity. Besides, I should thank her for her assistance.” Nigel downed the rest of his wine and handed the empty glass to a passing waiter. “If you would be so kind as to introduce us.”

  Norcroft shook his head. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “It’s an excellent idea.” Nigel raised an amused brow. “Are you concerned about me? Or her?”

  “I am most certainly concerned although I am not certain who I am concerned for. Both, I should think.”

  “Surely you can’t imagine any harm could come to Lady Felicity from a mere introduction?”

  “Don’t be absurd. I suspect Lady Felicity is well able to take care of herself.” Norcroft studied the other man, then blew a resigned breath. “I simply have the oddest vision in my head of two immovable objects crashing head on into one another.”

  “Couldn’t happen.” Sinclair idly sipped his champagne. “Immovable objects can’t crash into one another. They’re immovable.”

  “Exactly.” Nigel adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. “Now, introduce me to the immovable Lady Felicity.”

  Good Lord, he was heading directly toward her!

  Well, not directly toward her, Felicity amended. The scandalous Mr. Cavendish was skirting the perimeter of the ballroom floor accompanied by Lord Norcroft, but they were definitely headed in her direction. Not that she would ever allow Mr. Cavendish to know that she had noticed him in any way whatsoever but of course she had. She had been aware of the very moment he had entered the ballroom, as well as his extended conversation with Lord Norcroft and another man. Still, this wasn’t at all what she had planned. She was not yet prepared for their first real encounter.

  She laughed at something her partner said and was, as always, grateful for the ability to appear to be paying rapt attention even while her mind was somewhere else entirely. It was a skill her mother had encouraged. “My dear girl,” her mother had said, “one should never allow a boring gentlemen to know just how boring he is. It’s not at all nice. However, neither is it necessary to allow oneself to be trapped by ennui when one could be engaging in much more interesting thoughts.”

  Lord Beckham was nice enough and an excellent dancer as well but he wasn’t, nor, she suspected, could he ever be—and no doubt he had no wish to be—the Honorable Mr. Nigel Cavendish. Even if honorable was an official designation due to his position as the son of a viscount rather than a descriptive term regarding his character.

  It had been remarkably easy to discover his name after his appearance in her garden three nights ago. The next morning she had simply mentioned to her maid, Nancy, that she had heard a commotion at Lord and Lady Pomfrey’s the night before. Nancy had heard from Bridget, the downstairs parlormaid, who had received her information from Cook, who had an ongoing flirtation with the greengrocer who also provided fresh produce to the Pomfrey house, exactly what had transpired and the name of the scoundrel involved. Nancy, though well trained and always cognizant of her place, was never reluctant to gossip with just the tiniest bit of encouragement. Apparently Mr. Cavendish’s activities were an ongoing source of amusement below stairs throughout London, and Nancy was a fount of information.

  Felicity learned he was currently residing with his parents, Lord and Lady Cavendish, in their grand home in Mayfair only because the residence he had previously inhabited, a house loaned to him by the Marquess of Helmsley, had been damaged by fire. Nancy spun an altogether unbelievable story about Mr. Cavendish and an actress and a parrot that made no sense whatsoever but was fascinating nonetheless. The maid furthermore said he had been residing in the marquess’s house because his own was under repair due to an incident of flooding, also of a suspicious nature.

  Nancy delivered these stories and several others in a manner that clearly indicated what she thought of men who dallied with actresses, with or without parrots. Felicity was certain each and every tale was exaggerated and Mr. Cavendish’s exploits had gained a great deal in the telling and retelling, although there was undoubtedly a kernel of truth in the accounts. Still, Felicity noted that not one of Nancy’s stories involved women who were not widowed, or married with questionable reputations, or on the stage. While he had been involved in any number of scandalous escapades, none had led to the ruination of women who were not previously inclined in that direction. Obviously, for a scoundrel, Mr. Cavendish did indeed have some scruples. A clear indication that he simply needed the right woman to start him on the path to reform.

  Felicity Constance Evanston Melville was the right woman.

  The music drew to a close, and Lord Beckham led her off the floor.

  “Is it me?” Lord Beckham asked in a casual manner.

  “Is what you, my lord?” Felicity said pleasantly, noting Mr. Cavendish’s approach behind His Lordship.

  “I have the impression your mind was not entirely on our dance.” He cast her a curious smile. “Or on me.”

  “Nonsense, my lord.” She ignored a stab of guilt. He was a nice man, after all. She favored him with her brightest smile. “I was simply captivated by your charm, and therefore it was all I could do to concentrate on the steps and not fumble about. Gossips would surely attribute that to an excess of spirits and assume you had plied me with alcohol to enable you to have your way with me. My reputation would be shattered, and the blame would be laid on you. No.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “If I have seemed inattentive it was only to save us both from complete and utter disgrace.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then laughed. “Very good.”

  She grinned. “Thank you.”

  He studied her curiously. “I know we have danced together and spoken in the past, but I must confess I don’t recall you being quite so…”

  “Polished?” She raised a brow.

  He c
huckled. “I was going to say enchanting, but polished suits as well.”

  She leaned toward him in a confidential manner. “It’s the travel, you know. There’s nothing quite like new experiences and new places to take a…a…” She thought for a moment. “A stone plucked from the earth and turn it into something nicely decora—”

  “A gem, Lady Felicity.” Lord Beckham lifted her hand to his lips. “A jewel, exquisite, lovely, and nearly flawless.”

  She laughed. “As delightful as that is to hear, I should tell you I have any number of dreadful flaws.”

  “Ahem.” A throat being cleared sounded behind Lord Beckham. He cast her a reluctant glance, released her hand, and turned.

  “Good evening, Beckham,” Lord Norcroft said.

  Beckham smiled. “Norcroft. Good to see you.”

  “Good evening, Lady Felicity.” Norcroft nodded a bow.

  “Good evening, my lord.” Felicity extended her hand and tried not to notice Mr. Cavendish beside Norcroft. What was she going to say to him?

  “You are looking exceptionally lovely to night,” Norcroft murmured over her hand.

  She laughed lightly. “And you are as charming as ever, my lord.”

  Norcroft smiled and released her hand. “Allow me to introduce an old friend of mine, Mr. Nigel Cavendish.” Felicity held her breath and forced a pleasant, impersonal smile. “Mr. Cavendish, this is Lady Felicity Melville.”

  “An honor, my lady.” Mr. Cavendish took her hand and raised it to his lips. She wondered that she didn’t melt into a small puddle at his feet.

  He was quite as handsome as she thought a rogue—at least a successful rogue—should be. His jaw was nicely square, with a distinctly determined set to it. His hair was dark, a walnut color, and with a slight unruly hint of curl. The kind of hair a woman wanted to run her fingers through just to see if it was as thick and lush as it appeared. His nose was the tiniest bit crooked, which enhanced rather than detracted from his appearance and made him seem just a touch dangerous. But it was his eyes, clear and blue as a summer sky, with a spark of amusement in their depths, that made him appear truly wicked. As if he knew precisely what a woman wanted and was more than willing to provide it.