Beastly Lords Collection

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  She frowned. “I had never thought of us as partners.”

  “No?” he asked.

  “No. And you do?” She stared at him, both brows raised.

  Admittedly, he didn’t. “Not usually, I suppose. Now that you mention it, not at all. Yet for a party, I am your gentleman companion, your cohost, am I not? Others might think of us as partners.”

  “Everyone knows it’s my home.”

  “We could have the party at my townhouse.”

  She laughed. “Impossible, darling. I want to invite my new friend. Why should Mrs. St. Ange travel across the city to see me at your place?”

  “I see.” Suddenly, the party was becoming more interesting. Still, Michael didn’t want to appear less than a successful viscount in front of Mrs. St. Ange. He didn’t even know why. “Because of her attendance, I have to look like a kept man who can’t afford to throw a party at my own house?” He knew he sounded childish.

  “What on earth are you saying?” Elizabeth cocked her head at him. “Besides, it’s not only her. I have another new neighbor I am inviting, and I intend to do a little matchmaking.”

  That didn’t sit well with him either. As if he and Elizabeth were an old married couple, his paramour intended to help other people form love matches.

  Maybe six months was too long to be with someone he had no intention of marrying. Perhaps he ought to be considering a little matchmaking for himself.

  “You look peevish. Don’t say you’re not coming to my dinner.” Elizabeth stopped hiding her body and set the shift beside her.

  He would attend, if only to see how Mrs. St. Ange behaved around other people, for he couldn’t believe she could be so abrupt and surly with everyone. More than that, he wanted to see her indoors, without a hat and cape, and in lamplight.

  Would she allow Elizabeth to match her with someone? He could hardly give that credence.

  “Of course, I’ll be there.”

  Then Michael focused on the irresistible creature before him, except he could resist her and without any effort.

  “What you mistake for peevishness is actually a headache,” he confessed. “I apologize. I shall see myself out. Send word of the date and time, and I’ll be there.”

  With a sense of satisfaction whose origin he couldn’t identify, perhaps self-denial, he left.

  *

  Holding Harry in her arms until her back ached, Ada finally put her boy down. Using him as an excuse not to leave for the widow’s dinner could only work for so long. Nanny Finn was waiting for her charge, and Ada’s maid, Lucy, was waiting to put the finishing touches on her appearance.

  She dropped to her knees in front of the boy, hearing Lucy gasp with dismay. Any creases would have to be removed, maybe the whole gown changed if she ruined it. She didn’t care. With Harry’s gorgeous eyes, so like his father’s, staring at her adoringly, she gazed back at him with equal adoration.

  “Mama.”

  “Harry,” she replied. They did this often, stating each other’s place in the world and then laughing. She had no idea why it delighted the boy but, as usual, he chuckled.

  Kissing his soft cheek, she thanked God for him as she always did.

  “I love you, my little man. Will you be good for Nanny?”

  He nodded.

  Squeezing him tightly against her, not minding when his little fingers got caught up in her lace fichu, which he pulled away from her as she set him free, Ada then stood and let the disapproving maid tidy her up.

  “Good night,” she called to Harry who waved before taking the nanny’s hand and letting her lead him away.

  Smart boy, Ada thought. He knew warm milk and chocolate biscuits were in his future. And what about her? A nerve-wracking performance at a dinner with strangers.

  “The wrinkles aren’t so bad,” Ada said as Lucy tugged at the hemline to smooth the top skirt.

  “Shall I get another fichu for your neckline, ma’am?”

  Ada glanced down. The upper curves of her breasts were on display, but no more so than what she’d seen in the fashion magazines and in her brief time in Town.

  “I’ll go ungirded,” she quipped, causing Lucy to frown. “That is, I’m fine as I am.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the maid agreed. “You’re more than fine. You look like a dazzling jewel.”

  If only she didn’t feel like a bowl of undercooked porridge, all mushy with no firmness to hold her up.

  “I’m ready,” she told her driver, waiting by the front door to escort her the few yards.

  In a very few minutes, he was leaving her at Elizabeth Pepperton’s doorway, well-lit, and already being opened by the butler.

  “What time shall I collect you, ma’am?” her driver asked.

  If all went right, she would have an escort.

  “You won’t be needed later.”

  In the next instant, she was indoors in the warmth and light, and being led into the drawing room where people were already chatting and drinking. Elizabeth even had a violinist playing softly in one corner.

  Ada took in all this in the span of a few pounding heartbeats, and the first person she made eye contact with was Lord Vile, who was standing next to an elegantly dressed couple. Something like the zap of a lightning bolt slammed through her. She didn’t even flinch, merely swallowing and letting her gaze roam over the rest of the attendees.

  Then Elizabeth was moving toward her, arms outstretched, welcoming her. The conversation had come to a halt upon her entrance, so naturally the hostess took her arm and faced the other guests.

  “Let me introduce you all to my delightful new neighbor, Mrs. St. Ange. Alas, she is a widow like myself.”

  Then with everyone’s greeting still echoing in her ears, Ada let Elizabeth take her around the room to meet each guest individually. She knew none of them from her Seasons, and only the bachelor, a Cornish viscount from across the other side of the square, showed a particular interest in her. He was about a decade older than she was but had kind eyes and a surprisingly thick shock of blond hair.

  Ada had absolutely no interest in him, unable to concentrate until she reached the other side of the room where her quarry stood. All the while on pins and needles, she was extremely glad of a glass of something red that magically appeared in her hand. She sipped it as she finally reached Lord Vile.

  Coughing at the unexpected flavor of berries, she reached her nemesis with tears pricking at the back of her eyes and her cheeks reddened. Bother!

  “Mrs. St. Ange,” Lord Alder intoned, bowing over her free hand. “Are you all right?”

  Instead of the cool, sophisticated demeanor she’d hoped to project, she was spluttering.

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t you like my festive drink?” Elizabeth asked. “A cocktail, I’m calling it, like the Americans say.”

  “It’s delicious,” Ada assured her. “For some reason, I assumed it to be wine.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Naturally. Where everyone else is serving claret, I chose sloe gin. Speaking of wine, I’ll go make sure my selections are already open in the dining room before we go in.”

  The hostess disappeared from her side, and Ada felt the keen loss of her friendly camaraderie. She would face Lord Vile alone.

  “We meet again, and indoors,” he said.

  For want of answer, she sipped the drink again with better results. It had enough sugar to make it palatable. Two more sips and she was ready to engage in conversation.

  “I am often indoors,” she offered. “You, however, seem to spend an inordinate amount of time loitering on the square.”

  He grinned instead of taking offense. She wasn’t sure what she’d been aiming for, but his smile tickled her insides, causing an immediate resurgence of anger. She would not be charmed by him, not in the least.

  Remember what he did, she reminded herself. How you had to sneak back to your carriage, a sticky wetness dripping between your legs.

  “I assure you, it was coincidence,” he said. “I have
other interests besides the sidewalks of Belgravia.”

  “Truly? How do you occupy yourself?”

  His eyes widened.

  “A viscount, not yet head of your family,” Ada continued, leveling him with her stare. “No apparent responsibilities. Never married, no offspring. Why, it’s almost as if you haven’t needed to grow up, and thus…,” she trailed off.

  After a moment of silence—perhaps he was stunned by someone finally telling him what a wastrel he was—Michael snagged a drink off a nearby table. He nearly downed it entirely before he put his unconcerned, affable expression back in place.

  “You seem to know a lot about me. Or think you do. Tell me, have you been asking questions?”

  Rolling her eyes, making sure he saw her doing so, Ada had her response ready.

  “I noticed you answered my question with a question of your own. Thus, your richly full life with all its important interests occupying your time remains a mystery. As for my asking others about you, one needn’t do any more than read the dailies. The infamous ‘Lord V,’ as you’re called, is often in the papers.”

  His smile had decidedly died, and his face was taking on a flushed pallor. No doubt it was her use of the moniker ‘Lord V.’ She’d heard he absolutely hated it.

  “You shouldn’t believe all the gossip in the papers, Mrs. St. Ange.”

  “Indeed, I don’t. Or I wouldn’t be speaking with you now, Lord Alder.” She glanced away from him. “I believe we’re being called to dinner. Would you like to take my arm?”

  She couldn’t believe she was going to let him touch her, but decided it showed him she had no interest and that he didn’t affect her one way or the other.

  His jaw clenched.

  Inside, she felt the smallest of victories. More of a coup d’état than a coup de grâce, for she was certainly not dealing him a merciful blow with any intent of kindly putting him out of his misery. There was too much more misery she wished to deliver.

  Setting her glass upon the sideboard, she waited.

  What could he do? He would have to politely take her arm and lead her into the dining room or be viewed an absolute heel.

  Still, Ada hadn’t expected the strange reaction of her body when he reached for her hand and placed it on his arm.

  The scent of him, his warmth, his familiar face, even the width and breadth of his body, all filled her with agitation. In the blink of an eye, she was back in the gazebo, and an irrational part of her brain imagined him drawing her to him and kissing her in front of everyone.

  By the time Lord Alder showed her to her seat, pulling out her chair for her, she wanted to gulp for air. Keeping her head down, she sat and didn’t even thank him.

  Not a very alluring performance, she had to admit. She’d used all the vinegar to put him in his place, but none of the honey she’d intended to keep him off balance and draw her to him.

  Sighing, Ada flicked open her white cotton napkin and settled it on her lap. When the ladies were in their places, the men sat. Naturally, the eligible, fair-haired man was seated next to her, as she’d already ascertained he was Elizabeth’s choice for her ‘match’ for the evening.

  Be that as it may, when she had collected herself and looked up, Michael Alder at the head of the table to her right was observing her.

  Do it, she told herself. Unsettle the blackguard.

  Gazing directly at him, she lifted her lips ever so slightly in the smallest of discreet smiles, and then she winked.

  *

  Blazes! Michael couldn’t stop staring at this beautiful, blue-eyed minx even after she’d turned to her dinner companion, Lord Toddingly, and begun to converse. No one had ever spoken to him thusly, nor ever brought up that horrid nickname to his face. He should be furious. Yet he wasn’t.

  Her soft little smile and mocking wink carried with them a punch to his gut, as did her lowcut neckline without a hint of a lace fichu. Her bosom was on display, and he, for one, thought it magnificent.

  However, Michael didn’t know if she hated him or admired him. Maybe she didn’t know, herself.

  Whatever the case, a lot of sentiment was swirling around from someone who didn’t even know him. Someone whom he definitely wished to know better.

  The lady on his right, one of Elizabeth’s acquaintances, said his name and snagged his attention with talk of cricket, which her husband to her right joined in. Soon, the whole table was debating the merits of George Parr over Fuller Pilch. Except Mrs. St. Ange and her dining companion.

  She and the bachelor from across the square, to whom Michael had taken an instant dislike, had their heads close together, discussing something which, evidently, they had no interest in sharing.

  This went on through the first two courses, punctuated by her lovely throaty laugh. Each time Michael heard it, he wondered what had inspired it and why it sent a message directly to his groin.

  When he could stand it no longer, after the oysters and the mock-turtle soup and just as the fish course was being served, Michael addressed her directly.

  “Mrs. St. Ange, how are you liking your new residence on the square?”

  She paused a moment, turning slowly to face him, making everyone aware he had disrupted the flow of her conversation with Lord Toddingly.

  “I find it very much to my liking. Particularly the helpful people one meets on the street. Of course, one never knows when one might be accosted by a ne’er-do-well right on one’s own doorstep.”

  There, she’d done it again. In the space of two seconds, she seemed to praise him then disparage him.

  “All the excitement must be on this side of the square,” Lord Toddingly observed. “I’ve had neither help nor hindrance since I moved in.”

  And to his dismay, the two started talking amongst themselves again. Michael glanced down the length of the table toward his mistress, only to find her giving him a querying look.

  Hm, could she see the storm brewing inside his head? He hoped not.

  After the roasted chicken and the salad courses, they had sherbet and strawberries—disappointed, he’d hoped for a sponge cake with thick custard—and then coffee.

  At last, he could stand. However, before he could get to Ada’s chair, her dining companion pulled it out for her. Michael didn’t fail to notice how Lord Toddingly looked down her décolletage. He would have been angry except he couldn’t blame the man, and had hoped to do precisely the same thing.

  Sighing at the duty coming next, Michael had to play his part and lead the male guests into Elizabeth’s library for cigars and brandy. Undoubtedly, they would talk more of cricket. Perhaps one of them was knowledgeable about the stock market and he could learn a little more.

  When they returned half an hour later, none of them wishing to linger too long away from the ladies, Elizabeth and her three guests were in the drawing room drinking cognac, which sounded like a fine idea to Michael.

  “What has been your topics of conversation?” he asked, sitting next to his mistress for the first time all night.

  The women exchanged glances all around and then laughter broke out. Instantly, his gaze was drawn to Mrs. St. Ange, whose cheeks had turned a becoming shade of pink, even while laughing.

  “I see,” he said. “Gentlemen,” he addressed the others, “I believe they’ve been discussing us.”

  “Pish,” Elizabeth said. “You are not our only source of amusement.”

  “Then our sometimes-ridiculous behavior wasn’t on your tongues?”

  “Maybe,” she admitted, and the ladies laughed again.

  He was pleased to see the violinist had returned. There would be no coercing untalented ladies to play the pianoforte or, worse, sing off-key. He should have known Elizabeth was too kind a hostess to open up her guests to embarrassment.

  Still, looking at Mrs. St. Ange, he couldn’t help wondering about the dexterity of her fingers or the skill of her lips. To sing a song, of course!

  “What are you grinning at?” Elizabeth asked him quietly. “A
re you glad we threw this party?”

  He looked at her, the woman whose bed he’d warmed for half a year and knew it was over. Though he admired her, he didn’t want to be her partner in any way outside of the bedroom, and now, even that passion was dwindling. This evening, though a success in terms of everyone’s enjoyment, felt false. He could be any man she’d placed at one end of her dining table.

  “I think you make a divine hostess,” he praised.

  Her gaze held his for a moment too long.

  In another hour, the evening was over, and as he knew would happen, he had to fight Lord Toddingly for the pleasure of walking Mrs. St. Ange home.

  After the women had kissed each other’s cheeks and thanked Elizabeth profusely, they all stood in a small group in the marble-floored foyer. Maneuvering so he was the one holding Mrs. St. Ange’s wrap, Michael draped it around her from behind, feeling her shoulders under his fingers.

  Did he feel her tremble at his touch?

  Before Toddingly could offer himself as an escort, Michael held out his arm.

  She stared at it.

  He wanted to close his eyes and say a prayer. She could and probably would humiliate him in front of everyone.

  Place your hand on my arm, he urged her silently.

  She cocked her head, prolonging his agony. Then she looked at Toddingly, and Michael feared the worst.

  “It seems our host is going to do his due diligence and see me safely down the sidewalk. It’s all of ten yards.”

  Michael let out the breath he was holding and felt her delicate, gloved hand rest upon his forearm. He tucked it more securely and they stepped out into the chilly night.

  “You needn’t have left Lady Pepperton,” she said. “Lord Toddingly would have seen me home.”

  “As you said, due diligence. I don’t know him from some lady’s pet monkey.”

  He was rewarded by her burst of laughter at his irreverence, and he glanced behind him to make sure the man in question had gone the other way around the square.

  “No more than I truly know anything of you,” she pointed out after regaining her composure. “Anything that isn’t gossip.”