He baited her, and enjoyed it. This slip of a girl provoked him, and that was disconcerting. Most females he understood as connivers or simpletons. Miss Pencavel appeared to be neither. Her eyes shone with an innate intelligence. Why had he followed her into the garden—while he had to admit that he’d searched for any sign of her in town—when he had little use for marriage? A wife like her would only get in his way.
“I assure you, you will feel my sting.” She backed up a step and took another bite of her dessert. “You said cruel things about my mother. Even if they were true, you were still despicable.”
“I must apologize; I should have waited until I knew you better before being so straightforward.” He softened his words as a twig crackled under his buckled shoe. “But are you like your mother, partial to servants and other low-lifes?”
“I might be partial to whoever takes my fancy, a sailor, a groom, a particularly handsome nightsoil man.” She scrutinized him closely. “I’ve heard you have sinister inclinations, not that such things would bother me, being the free-thinking person I am, but I’d rather not be troubled with you.”
Griffin pondered what she really knew. He decided to deride her, to nudge her off-balance. He resisted the urge to brush a stray leaf from her cheek. “Are you already ruined, my girl, is that why you shy away?”
“I have been in various positions where I might have been ruined, but not in that compromising position I know nothing about, and you no doubt insinuate.” She licked her spoon, slowly.
Music skirled through the foliage; conversations and laughter ebbed and flowed on the evening air.
Griffin laughed, to allay his increasing attraction to her. Deuce it all; if he wanted a woman he’d pick up a busty tavern wench for a quick roll on the ticking, or other places. His chest tightened. He did not want to desire this little shrew. “You talk a good show, but I think you hide a fearful heart.”
Now she laughed. “Fearful of what? Of a man with your reputation? Since I never plan to marry you, I could care less who you defile or cheat, or whatever you ominous people like to do.”
“I’ll show you what we ominous people enjoy doing.” He grabbed her and pulled her against him, her breasts plush against his chest. He strained to resist, but failed. Grasping her chin, Griffin planted his lips over hers. She tasted like raspberries and smelled of soap, her lips soft and delicious.
Cold, mushy ice cream dripped down his shirt front; he jerked away. “You little devil. You’ve soiled my fine Holland shirt.”
“You deserved it, you cad.” She shoved the spoon down his shirt neck and the metal chilled his flesh. “And that is the last kiss you’ll ever have from me, even if it wasn’t half bad!” She turned and pushed her way through the bushes, back to the pavilion.
“Don’t deny you enjoyed it immensely,” he replied, angry that he should have reined in his emotions—weak emotions he hadn’t been aware of before this. “And now I’m certain I’ll have you...one day, when I have the time to put a leash on you, and a muzzle.” Teeth gritted, he pulled out the spoon and tossed it in the grass. Fingers sticky, he headed for the front entrance just as a whistle blew.
At this signal, servants in strategic places lit numerous oil lamps—emblazoning the entire garden. Lovers and strumpets hid their faces. Everyone else gasped in wonder.
Griffin pulled his felt bicorn hat low, swept his cape around him, and hurried for the Thames to the Vauxhall Stairs.
****
In his stuffy office, crammed with ledgers and papers, documents and glass-fronted bookcases, Griffin’s man of business said, “You seem distracted, sir. Is anything troubling you? Other than our prohibited manipulations?”
Griffin leaned back in the leather, wing-back chair; a chair designed this way to deter drafts in cavernous manor houses. “Nothing that wouldn’t improve with a good spanking.” He sighed; why couldn’t he get that spiteful-tongued heiress out of his mind? “At any rate, back to business. Are you certain the items in question are ready to be, ah, covertly shipped?”
“That is what this last, cleverly-coded letter said.” The man rustled paper as he perused the missive. “The authorities aren’t yet certain if it’s entirely wrong to smuggle a country’s own ruins and relics to another country. But if we prevail, the money will be profitable, without paying the import taxes.”
“Good, good. I also have some contraband stowed at Jamaica Inn that needs a buyer—several silver antoninianus’s from the second century, before the coins were debased to bronze.” Griffin straightened and stared around the well-appointed, if disorganized office. “I don’t need the profits, but the high adventure of it is what matters.” He was bored with life, sometimes even bored with sheep, and this provided an added spark, as did the other, that creature he wished would vanish and stop tantalizing his dreams. “Well, have my man in the field set it up, so it all goes smoothly in Italy, and we evade the revenue men. I must be off to Cornwall, to make ready at that end.” He stood and smoothed down his elegantly-tailored frock coat. “I could go to White’s here in town, but that men’s only club is a haven for drinkers and gamblers. I think I’ll visit Mayfair first, to see a woman about a girl.”
“A love interest, sir?” His man looked hopeful. “Are you weary of serving wenches?”
“Hardly. There’s nothing like a good wench, whether from a tavern or a farm.” Griffin chuckled without mirth. He hadn’t bedded as many women as he led people to believe. “This is a game, this current not-quite an affair de amour, I must admit. And I so hate to lose at games.”
Outside, he hailed a hackney. What a faux pas; he should never have kissed that evil child. Three days had passed since Vauxhall. Earl Pencavel had warned him his errant daughter was most likely in Mayfair with her aunt, so he’d had the place watched by trusted minions, thus his ability to track her to Vauxhall.
Riding in the hackney, Griffin ruminated on his life. A staid upbringing, the correct schools, the right tutors, select friends, all so very upper echelon. And as predictable as could be. After inheriting Merther Manor and other estates, he’d be quite the catch as Viscount of Merther, if he allowed anyone near him. But since saddled with this chit his father had drunkenly (his strait-laced father’s only vice) agreed to when she was just a babe—and Griffin off in school learning to be the proper Englishman—he’d been safely betrothed and not subject to the slobberings of fat mothers wishing to foist their eligible, giggly daughters off on him.
He’d traveled to Langoron House with every intention of refusing the betrothal and paying off the father to ease his humiliation, but... He hadn’t counted on the brat to be so lovely, and contrary, fueling his desire. He clenched his fingers in his soft suede gloves.
She had mentioned excavations, and his sinister inclinations, but surely she knew nothing about his activities.
Of course, he could never marry an astute girl and keep up his smuggling enterprise, but he might have a fling with her. She obviously cared little about her reputation.
In Grosvenor Square, he alighted at the Penpol address.
The ubiquitous somber butler showed him to a parlor, decorated in the passé rococo style of shells, arabesques and elaborate curves in the decor. Even a fanciful Watteau painting of frolicking ladies hung on the wall.
A curvaceous older woman sauntered in, quizzing glass raised. “Lord Lambrick, I presume?” Her lips quirked. Her cheeks were streaked with scarlet rouge. A black velvet beauty patch, or mouche, was pasted on her right cheek. “You should have left your card, as is appropriate, then waited to see if I was ‘at home’. As you can ascertain, I am. We were not expecting you, yet here you are.”
“I’m quite aware of that; do excuse my intrusion, Lady Penpol.” He bowed at the proper level for a woman of her station. Her banter amused him, but he wouldn’t let on. “I was in town, and wished to see my betrothed, Lady Pencavel.”
“But does she wish to see you, is the question. My niece told me she’s refused you.” The woman’s br
ows arched, her forehead pushing at her mountain of apple-pomaded brown hair, her little lace cap quivering. “You do look like a rogue, if a very fine-looking one, but I digress.”
“I see all of your family—the females at least—have quick tongues.” He softened his retort with his most charming smile. He could be charismatic when he tried. “And are substantially easy on the eye as well.”
“Oh, my. Such flummery, sir.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “You are a naughty one. Still, I’m not a green girl to fall for the dulcet tones of a practiced bon vivant.”
“I concede to your superiority, Lady Penpol. May I have a moment with Lady Pencavel?” He tried a look of contrition, something he was never good at. Inside he cringed at the lengths he had to go to preserve protocol. “I promise I will be brief.”
“Very well. My niece swears she’s done with you, but it’s true she did not behave in the acceptable manner. I’ll see if she will receive you.” The woman ran her pointed gaze over him. “Hmmm, you don’t appear to be a man who is so easily discarded.” Lady Penpol swished from the parlor.
Minutes later, Miss Pencavel entered in a plain dress of pastel yellow, and she still looked comely, damn her! Her honey-blonde hair waved attractively around her perfect oval face.
“I hope you are here to apologize for your ungentlemanly behavior at Vauxhall.” She said it in a way that intimated she hadn’t been overly insulted. Her eyes gleamed. “And you intend to ‘officially’ release me from our obligation.”
“I’m pondering one but not the other,” he said enigmatically. He could smell her light lemon scent, and his pulse increased. “I took you for a woman of experience.”
“Then I should be utterly inappropriate for you. Nevertheless, I am not a light-skirt.” Her fingers touched the gauzy kerchief around her throat; the cloth that hid her delectable décolletage. “I have nothing to say to you, although we seem to be having a discourse at the moment. Why are you here, exactly?”
“I came to inform you that I’ve regretted this betrothal since my father told me about it. And after meeting you, I regret it even further.” He gave her a cocky smile, but drank her in like a man dying of thirst and hated himself for it.
“I’m so glad I’ve not lived up to your expectations. It’s true that no man will ever claim my heart, but I especially don’t want you to have access to it.” She lowered her long sweeping eyelashes.
A maid rattled in a tea tray and set it down. Miss Pencavel dismissed her.
“Then we are in agreement.” He was thrilled that she continued to spar with him. He had to admit this was why he’d come today, to watch her pretty mouth—the lips he’d enjoyed— deride him. “If you wish to marry some fatuous blockhead who will be flattered by your doubtful charms, then I might consent to release you, since I’m not the marrying kind, at least not to someone like you.”
“I will never marry and allow any man to preside over me. The ridiculous English laws that give the husband all rights, and the wife none, will never tie me down. Tea?” She poured the liquid into Worcester Porcelain soft-paste, with added soap rock, cups. The pretty red flowered motif looked strangely natural in her delicate fingers.
“You should be tied down, double-knotted if the truth be known.” Griffin accepted the overglazed polychrome enameled cup and sipped the rich beverage. “A fine black tea blend from Twinings, I’m guessing. My compliments to your fashion-stunted aunt.”
“I will inform her. And I would say, I hope you choke on it, but that would be carrying rudeness to its limits.” She sipped from her own cup.
“You’re too kind, my, should I say, most unladylike lady?” He watched her sweet lips on the rim of the cup. He wanted to grab her and kiss her, but restrained himself. “So why did you mention excavations on the day we met?”
“Why do you care? I’d like to unearth antiquities, if it’s any of your concern.” She set down her cup. “I intend to travel to Italy then on to Greece and Egypt, as soon as I am of age.”
He gritted his teeth. She would have interests in the very items he was smuggling. What a bothersome creature. He wanted to throw her on the Louis XV-style velvet settee and ravage her, though decided against it. “I’d advise you to stay safe in England. There is a war going in the event you haven’t been enlightened of this fact.”
“I read the newssheets, and that only makes it more exciting.” She smiled provocatively. “I’m well aware of that Corsican general and his successes over the Austrians in the name of France.”
Griffin’s heart turned to stone. “Do not mention the blasted French.” His brother’s face swam before his eyes, but he pulled himself together. “And I insist you stay far away from them.”
“See, you already behave like an overprotective, bullying husband. How tiresome, sir.” Miss Pencavel titled up her chin, her gaze challenging.
“Ah, you have me there, my dear.” He bowed, to hide his grimace. Why did he care whether she was eaten by crocodiles in Egypt? He should leave, instead of being distracted by her slim neck and slimmer white arms. How would her skin feel to his touch? He took a quick sip of tea. “In that case, happy sailing across the channel, and may a thousand fleas nibble on your scorched carcass.”
She laughed, and it tingled along his spine. “That is more like it. Now be off with you. I’m sure you have some mistress hidden away here in town that awaits your foul ministrations. I must ready myself for a stimulating evening at Almack’s, where many men will worship at my pretty feet. Then we’ll see how doubtful my charms are, sir.” She tossed her head and half- winked as she floated from the parlor.
Griffin wanted to throw the teapot at her. He rubbed the back of his neck where tension usually coiled. She dug under his skin like the rash of a plague. Well, he’d see about her flirting with a bevy of callow lads at Almack’s. He thrust on his hat and tramped from the townhome. He had a whore, an actress, here in town, but right now, she wasn’t as alluring as the oh so annoying, Miss Pencavel.
Chapter Five
Why had she baited the scoundrel? Melwyn had no intention of attracting any men here at Almack’s. She only wanted to see where the rich and famous played before she took on the arduous, yet satisfying, life of an archeologist.
She glanced around the assembly room with its high, arched windows, simple drapes and plain carpet. Secretly, she searched for dark eyes watching, but Lambrick was not here.
“I’m relieved you agreed to accompany me, Mellie. This is one of the premier marriage marts of society in London for the upper crust, though not everyone is admitted.” Aunt Hedra primped at her large white ostrich feather that looked like a flag on a mountain peak. “The Duchess of Dumfort is my sponsor, and thus, yours as well.”
“I’ve told you, to no avail obviously, I have no interest in marriage. Besides, even after my discourse with Lord Lambrick, he still hasn’t agreed to release me from the betrothal. I acted rashly and so want things above-board for Papa’s sake.” Why did that rascal of a viscount linger in her thoughts? His fervent kiss had fluttered her heart.
Melwyn shook that aside as she walked with her aunt past milling people who laughed, talked, and sipped wine and tea. The scents of perfumed ladies, men in fragrances of bergamot and sandalwood, and many with body odors less than flattering, swirled around her. “But on another troubling subject, you really should reconsider your hair, Auntie; it is so 1770’s, not 1790’s. How many toques of cork do you have hidden under there?”
“My hairstyle is an elegant pouf, à la frivolité.” Her aunt twirled the tiny birdcage that dangled from her tresses. “Now, coxcombs play Hazard in the gaming room over there; and there’s a supper room, which serves a light repast, and a ballroom for dancing reels and minuets.” She pointed with her silk fan. “This is one of the few clubs to admit ladies, and the ladies preside over it in many ways.”
“If women only dally here to scout for husbands, I’m afraid this isn’t the place for me. I’d prefer a society to discuss the sciences and new d
iscoveries, such as the planet Uranus.” Melwyn primped at her hairstyle for emphasis—on the hair, not Uranus—her loose curls attractive under a white turban. Her robe á la Turque overdress was of light blue muslin, trimmed in aqua rosettes. Her white petticoat trimmed in pink rosettes peeked out from the folds. “You never did introduce me to your Royal Society friend.”
“My dear, when you crawled out of the bushes with scratches on your arms, your hair in disarray, and your lips bruised as if kissing someone, I was loath to introduce you to anyone.” Her aunt sniffed and fanned herself.
“There you are, my exquisites.” The Duchess of Dumfort wobbled over to them with two towering feathers in her silver tresses that almost tipped over her squat frame. “I have several young men I’d like to present to your beautiful niece. I’m so glad she is beautiful. Ugly girls, even if they are heiresses, are difficult to promote.”
“Are any of them intelligent? I might chance a conversation, if it is scintillating.” Melwyn sighed, allowing the duchess to take her arm to humor her aunt. As they passed through the crowd, a tall man in dark clothing caught the corner of Melwyn’s eye. Her heart jumped. She slowed and turned, but no one was there, only a door ajar that led out to a terrace.
“This is Mr. Showreynolds, his father is a baron.” The duchess stood Melwyn in front of a stocky man with sandy hair; he appeared to be in his late twenties. “Mr. Showreynolds, this is Lady Melwyn Pencavel.”
“I’m honored to meet you, my lady.” The pudding-faced young man, who had no remarkable features, took her hand and kissed it.
His sloppy lips felt nothing like Lord Lambrick’s sweltering kiss at Vauxhall. Melwyn trembled as she remembered it—again! “How passably nice to make your acquaintance. What do you know of Uranus?”
He blinked his dull eyes, once, twice. “I....uh...I’m not certain what you mean. Is that a jest?”
The Defiant Lady Pencavel Page 4
