Even if she was dressing badly on purpose to protect herself from inspiring too much enthusiasm in a suitor.
Other couples moved onto the lawn. He held out his hand. “I tell you what—why don’t we discuss that fascinating assumption of yours while we waltz?”
She hesitated. But honestly, a waltz with him sounded enormously tempting. Not because he was handsome and eligible and possessed of the most stalwart pair of shoulders she’d ever seen on a lord. No. It was simply because he might give her information she could use.
“Very well,” she said, and took his hand.
This time their dance was more intimate. The two of them swirled across the lawn as a couple, his hand resting familiarly on her waist and hers resting familiarly on his hip. Their other two hands were clasped—sealed together, really—and for some reason it made her positively breathless.
A pang of guilt gripped her. The only reason she’d agreed to a debut was so she could find who’d cheated her brother. She wasn’t supposed to be enjoying it. Enjoying dancing with him.
What was wrong with her? She’d never been the sort to be made breathless by a man, and certainly not by a marquess with a penchant for bad behavior. Why was he having this effect on her, drat it? Her knees were wobbly, for pity’s sake! She would give them a stern talking-to later.
He bent closer and she picked up the faintest scent of spicy cologne. “So why do you think you’re not my preference?” he asked in a rough rasp that made every muscle in her belly melt.
If she wasn’t careful, she’d soon be blushing and babbling like some schoolgirl. “Because most rakehells prefer flashy women with large bosoms and swaying hips. I am not that.”
“You know nothing about rakehells if you believe we all have the same preferences. Go to any brothel, and you’ll find women of every size and shape.” He brought his mouth close to her ear to murmur, “And a man in each of their beds.”
Jerking back, she caught the gleam in his eye and realized he was trying to shock her. Which he was very nearly doing. “Tell me, Lord Knightford, do you often discuss brothels with respectable young ladies?”
“No, but then, I rarely discuss tattoos with them, either.”
She glanced away and spotted her brother’s footman, the hulking Owen, one of the few servants they had left. He stood on the edge of the crowd, watching her. Oh, dear, it looked as if he’d read her message about tonight and needed to discuss it with her. Somehow she must get herself free of this horribly intriguing marquess.
“Which is all the more reason for us to join forces,” he said, drawing her attention back to him.
“Join forces?”
“Let Clarissa think that we’re interested in each other. Then she’ll leave us be. And we can discuss tattoos and brothels to our hearts’ content.”
“I can’t.”
“You just were.”
Curse the man for being deliberately obtuse. “No, I mean I can’t join forces with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I just can’t.” Much as she would like to curtail not only Clarissa’s matchmaking but that of Aunt Agatha, an association with his lordship was too risky. She couldn’t keep up her nightly activities if he were sniffing around, no matter what the reason.
“You mean you have someone waiting in the wings, and you don’t want me to scare him off,” he said.
His blasted lordship was going to keep prying until she convinced him that she didn’t want or need his interference. Leave it to a man not to believe a woman when she said she wasn’t interested in marriage. So she might as well tell him what he wanted to hear.
“That’s right.” She stared him down. “I have a suitor at home in Cheshire. One I vastly prefer to all the rich and titled gentlemen in London. Which is why I’m not interested in being courted by this lot.” He looked unconvinced. “I see. And what is the fellow’s name, if I may ask?”
Frantically she cast about for one. “Owen- . . . ouse.” Oh, Lord. “Mr. Phineas Owenouse.”
“Owenouse?” With a laugh he swung her through the waltz. “What kind of surname is that?”
“Why, it’s Welsh, of course.” Delia couldn’t help it—with Owen on the brain, it had been the first to leap into her mind. She was generally better at dissembling than this, but his lordship had thrown her off her game. “He’s a farmer. We have a number of Owenouses in our town.”
Oh, why had she hit upon that name? Clearly Lord Knightford didn’t believe her.
“Hmm. And how long have you had a tendre for this Phineas Owenoose?”
“Owenouse. Like ‘Owen’s house,’ except without the h.”
“Ah. And does this Owenouser have a tendre for you, too?” His eyes twinkled suspiciously.
“O-w-e-n-o-u-s-e, not Owenouser. And I should hope so, or why would I pin my hopes on him?” she said blithely, ignoring his other question.
He tightened his grip on her waist. “Ah, but if you already have a suitor, why is Lady Pensworth bringing you out?”
Good question. “Well . . . er . . . my aunt doesn’t approve of Phineas, of course. She wants me to marry well, and a Welsh farmer isn’t good enough for her.” Delia couldn’t tell whether he believed her. She pressed on, knowing that embellishing a tale with details often made it more believable. “But he’s a wonderful man, who raises chickens, pigs, and cows.”
His eyes narrowed on her. “He raises all that, does he? And crops, too, I suppose.”
“Of course. There’s barley and rye and corn and—”
“My, my, what an enterprising farmer,” he said dryly. “I didn’t know that one could grow corn in Cheshire.”
Uh-oh. Too many details could also ruin a tale. “Well, of course one can.” She hoped one could, anyway. Reynold had only grown flax on his land, for the local linen mills.
“In Shropshire,” he said, “only one county over from Cheshire, corn doesn’t grow well at all.”
Reynold and Papa had taught her that the best way to win at cards was to go on the attack. Surely that would prove true for dealing with overbearing lords, too. “How would you know? Clarissa says your estate is in Wiltshire.”
An odd light gleamed in his eyes. “One of them. But I’ve owned a hunting box in nearby Shropshire for years.”
“So you grow crops at your hunting box, do you?”
Irritation flashed over his face. “Of course I don’t grow— What has that got to do with anything?”
“I’m merely saying that if you don’t grow crops and you likely don’t meet many farmers, you can’t know too much about the local agriculture.”
She cast a furtive glance at Owen. She had to get rid of his lordship. It was clear from Owen’s expression that he needed to speak to her. And he didn’t dare stay out here very long or Aunt Agatha would wonder why he wasn’t with the other servants.
Fortunately, the waltz was ending. As soon as the music stopped and they bowed to each other, she said, “Thank you for the dance, Lord Knightford. It was most intriguing. I wish you luck with Lady Clarissa.”
But as she turned to walk off, he caught her by the arm. “I’m supposed to lead you from the floor,” he said firmly.
She forced a laugh. “This is a lawn, sir. And I can find my own way, thank you.”
His eyes narrowed on her. “Are you sure you won’t consider joining forces with me to keep Clarissa from plaguing us with her matchmaking? Your Phineas Owenhammer would never have to know.”
She started to correct him on the name again, then gave up. “Oh, but my dear Phineas could hear of it in the papers. You’re a very popular subject in the gossip rags, you know. And given the difficulties he and I already face in being together, I don’t want to take any chances.”
This time when she pulled away, he let her go, but she could feel his eyes on her the whole way. Somehow she’d managed to snag his attention, and that was not good.
She could only hope that his interest in her was as fleeting as his interest in every other
woman she’d heard associated with him. Because one way or another, she would find the man who’d cheated Reynold. And neither Clarissa nor the disturbingly handsome marquess was going to stand in the way of that.
Three
As Miss Trevor was darting away, Warren leaned forward and snagged a feather from her coiffure. She had so many of the damned things that she wouldn’t miss one, and he’d need an excuse to approach her again.
Which he fully intended to do. Because Clarissa was right—something was up with Miss Trevor.
He wasn’t sure what, but he knew that her tale about her “suitor” was created from whole cloth. She was good at lying—he’d give her that—but Phineas Owenouse? He’d wager there wasn’t a man on earth with such a ridiculous name, Welsh or no. Not to mention that she’d had trouble describing what he did for a living.
Farmer, hah! No farmer did all of what she described. The fellow would have to be filthy rich, and there were few farmers who were that rich.
Besides, he’d noticed her furtive glances at the servant standing on the edge of the crowd. Something was up. Whose servant was he, and why would she communicate with him so furtively? Was she arranging an assignation? Accepting one of those notes she supposedly read at balls?
And why did he care, anyway? The woman had deplorable taste in clothes, she was a pain in the arse, and she was almost certainly not worth Clarissa’s worry.
She also had a forthright manner that intrigued him, a lively enjoyment of dancing, and a fresh, lemony scent that made him think of tarts—not only the pastry kind, but the other kind. And unlike most debutantes, she didn’t seem to care what he thought of her.
It was maddening. Women of her station usually cozied up to him; they didn’t try to escape his advances. He was a bloody marquess, for God’s sake, practically the holy grail of husbands in society.
And she talked about things no debutante would ever discuss. She had a quick wit and a ready smile, and her throaty laugh would make any man imagine making love to her.
Often. Thoroughly.
He groaned and clamped down on a surprising burst of lust. He was supposed to be protecting her from ravishment by some fortune hunter, not plotting how to ravish her himself.
Clarissa wanted him to save Miss Trevor from trouble, and that’s what he meant to do. In years past, he should have pressed Clarissa harder about why she’d resisted marriage. If he’d known the truth, perhaps he could have prevented some of what she’d had to endure later. Doing this favor might go a long way toward assuaging his guilty conscience about that.
Besides, after all his ward had suffered, she deserved not to be fretting about her friend falling prey to a scoundrel. Clarissa, in her delicate condition, didn’t need any more worry weighing her down.
Right. That was why he was now stealthily edging toward a woman who didn’t want his attentions. Because of some need to protect his former ward.
The truth was, lately his life had become a monotony of smoky rooms and brandy-soaked nights spent in the arms of women he couldn’t even remember. He needed a challenge.
Unknotting the mystery of Miss Trevor would certainly be that. And since she claimed to have no romantic interest in him, he wouldn’t have to worry about her breaking out the leg shackles as soon as he so much as pressed her hand.
The object of his attentions reached the burly servant she seemed to be heading toward and then turned to look behind her. Quickly Warren pretended to be paying attention to another woman on the opposite end of the lawn. But as soon as Miss Trevor’s back was to him, he watched as she and the fellow in livery ducked down a thinly traveled path through the garden. Hmm. This grew more curious by the moment.
Twirling her feather in his hand, he followed them. Surely Miss Trevor wasn’t so foolish as to involve herself with a servant. She seemed too sensible for that, even if she was making up that ridiculous Phineas Owen-whatever.
Which meant that the servant must be connected to her secret admirer or to whomever she was running off to meet.
He approached the pair, keeping to the trees so he could sneak up on them unaware. As he got close, he overheard Miss Trevor speaking in an angry tone.
“But it must be tonight!” she said. “I have precious few nights left that I can go. Aunt Agatha is already annoyed at having to remain in town throughout the summer. If not for the king being dead and everyone having to come back to London for the opening of Parliament next week, she would have had us packed off to Cheshire already until next year.”
Interesting. The chit didn’t sound particularly eager to return home and reunite with her paragon farmer.
He slid behind a tree to listen.
“But, miss, it’s too dangerous!” the servant said. “Only today your sister-in-law asked me who I was with last night. She saw me out the window during the wee hours of the morning accompanied by, as she put it, ‘a fellow she didn’t recognize,’ and thought it odd. If she goes to your aunt about it—”
“We’ll just have to be more careful. Leave by another entrance—one that doesn’t lie beneath her window.”
So Miss Trevor was meeting some fellow at night, apparently escorted by this servant. Her aunt’s servant? It must be.
“I don’t know, miss—” he began, showing that he wasn’t a complete idiot.
“You owe it to me. You owe it to him, Owen.”
Owen? He stifled a laugh. Owenouse. Of course. But who was the him? Probably her hapless suitor.
The man huffed out an exasperated breath. “To be sure, miss, I know my duty. But we have to be careful.”
“We will be, trust me. I have no more desire to be caught out than you. Too much is at stake.”
Damned reckless woman. She probably fancied herself in love with whatever scoundrel she was meeting.
Warren frowned. He considered himself a relatively good judge of character, and had truly thought her too intelligent to be taken in by some fortune hunter. What a disappointment to discover that even a clever woman could be stupid when it came to men.
She drew her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. “I’d better return to the breakfast before someone notices I’m gone. Don’t forget—we meet at one a.m.” Then, turning on her heel, she came back up the path.
That was his cue. He wasn’t leaving here without at least reminding her that she was playing with fire.
He slid out from behind the tree to approach them. “Ah, Miss Trevor, I found you.”
She practically jumped out of her skin. Excellent. Perhaps it would put the fear of God into her, since she clearly didn’t have the sense of a goat.
“Lord Knightford! I . . . um . . .”
“You dropped this when you left the dance.” He held out the feather. “I wished to return it.”
“How kind of you.” She took the feather. “But how do you know it’s mine?”
“I saw it fall as you walked away. I looked about for you, but you’d disappeared. I took this path in hopes that I might run into you, since it was the only one nearby.”
That seemed to make her suspicious, but he didn’t care. He wanted her to be on her guard.
Not to be meeting a wretched fortune hunter in the dead of night. Clarissa’s experience was too fresh and painful for him to forget. It still disturbed him that his cousin had suffered so, even if it hadn’t been on his watch.
Miss Trevor took the feather from him. “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”
He’d never heard such a grudging thank-you in his life. Bloody ungrateful female.
When he stared hard at the servant, she apparently realized that she should explain. “This is one of my late brother’s footmen. He had a message for me from my aunt, so we moved aside to discuss it privately.”
“I see. That must have been some message.”
“Oh, my aunt is full of demands,” she said with a wave of her hand, “all of which require deciphering.”
“Well, then, if you’re done, I should be happy to escort you back
to the breakfast.”
She paled. “Actually, Aunt Agatha is not . . . er . . . feeling particularly well, so I believe we’re going home. That was what Ow— That was what we were discussing.” With a quick nod, she added, “Again, thank you for your kindness, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the breakfast.”
Then she headed up the path, accompanied by the servant.
Warren followed at a leisurely pace, enjoying the swing of her full hips, which must be the “curves in the wrong places” she’d been referring to. But he appreciated a fine, plump bottom, so he enjoyed watching hers. Plus, his walking behind her seemed to agitate her, since she kept casting furtive glances back at him and increasing her pace.
Good. Whatever she was up to seemed decidedly unwise, and he hoped he’d made her think twice about it.
They reached the party once more, and she headed off at great speed toward her aunt. Meanwhile, Clarissa headed at great speed toward him.
“Well?” she asked in a terse whisper as she reached him. “What do you think? Isn’t she behaving oddly?”
To put it mildly.
But he wasn’t about to say that to Clarissa. For one thing, Edwin would shoot him if he allowed Clarissa to become involved in midnight meetings and roguish doings. For another, he could handle this on his own. He would simply wait outside Lady Pensworth’s town house tonight, confront the lovers as they met clandestinely, and make sure the fortune hunter stopped playing with Miss Trevor’s heart and reputation.
“She’s behaving no more oddly than other young women in love,” he told Clarissa.
A frown creased her brow. “That’s not saying much.”
“True. But she seems a rather sensible sort.” Or she had when he’d first met her, anyway.
“She is, most of the time. But apparently she took her brother’s death very hard, and her aunt says she hasn’t quite recovered from it, even though it’s been almost a year since it happened.”
The Danger of Desire Page 3
