by Amanda Quick
Harry shrugged. “I believed us to be engaged. Your uncle had accepted my offer and you were paying me a visit in the middle of the night. What was I to think? Some would say you invited my attentions and were more than generous with your favors.”
“I don’t believe this. The entire sequence of events is getting muddled. Once and for all, I did not bestow any favors on you, Graystone.”
“You underestimate yourself, my dear.” He smiled whimsically. “I considered them very great favors indeed. I shall never forget the feel of your lovely breast cupped in my hand. Soft and firm and full. And it was crowned with a perfect rosebud that flowered beneath my fingers.”
Augusta gave a horrified squeak of dismay. “My lord.”
“Do you really believe I could forget the elegant form of your thighs?” Harry continued, well aware of what this intimate recitation was doing to Augusta’s composure. He told himself it was past time the lady received a sharp lesson. “Round and finely shaped like those on a Grecian statue. I will treasure forever the great privilege you allowed me when you let me touch your beautiful thighs, my sweet.”
“But I did not allow you to touch them,” Augusta protested. “You just went ahead and did it.”
“You did not lift a finger to stop me. Indeed, you kissed me with a great deal of very warm, one might even say very willing passion, did you not?”
“No, I did not, sir.” She looked slightly frantic now.
Harry’s brows rose. “You felt nothing when you kissed me? I am deeply hurt. And sadly disappointed to think that you gave me so much and felt nothing in return. For me, it was a rendezvous with passion. I shall never forget it.”
“I did not say I felt nothing. I only meant that what I felt was not precisely a warm and willing passion. I was taken by surprise, that is all. My lord, you are misreading the situation. You should not have placed such a serious significance on those events.”
“Does that mean you find yourself at that sort of midnight rendezvous so frequently that you no longer take such intimate encounters seriously?”
“I meant nothing of the kind.” Completely flustered now, Augusta glared at him in mounting dismay. “You are deliberately trying to make me feel that I ought to stay engaged to you merely because we got a little carried away on the floor of your library.”
“I feel that certain promises were made that night,” Harry said.
“I made no promises.”
“I disagree. I felt that you very definitely made binding promises when you allowed me the intimate privileges of an engaged man. What was I to think when you gave every indication that you would welcome me as a lover and as a husband?”
“I did not give any such indication,” she retorted weakly.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Ballinger. I cannot bring myself to believe that you were merely amusing yourself with me that night. Nor can you convince me that you have sunk so low as to make a habit of toying with a man’s affections on the floor of his library. You may be reckless and rash by nature, but I refuse to believe that you are heartless, cruel, or completely without regard for your honor as a woman.”
“Of course, I am not without regard for my own honor,” she said through gritted teeth. “We Northumberland Ballingers care a great deal for our honor. We would fight to the death for it.”
“Then the engagement stands. We are both committed now. We have gone too far to turn back.”
There was a sharp cracking sound and Augusta looked down at her fan. She had been clutching it so tightly she had snapped the fragile sticks. “Oh, bloody hell.”
Harry smiled and reached down to catch her chin on the edge of his hand. Her long lashes swept up, revealing her deeply troubled, hunted gaze. He bent his head and brushed a kiss against her parted lips. “Trust me, Augusta. We shall do very well together.”
“I am not at all certain of that, my lord. I have given this much thought and I can only conclude we are making a grave mistake.”
“There is no mistake.” Harry listened to the first strains of a waltz drifting through the open windows. “Will you honor me with this dance, my dear?”
“I suppose so,” Augusta said ungraciously as she jumped to her feet. “I do not see that I have a great deal of choice in the matter. If I refuse, you will no doubt tell me that propriety demands I dance the waltz with you simply because we are engaged.”
“You know me,” Harry murmured as he took her arm. “I am a stickler for the proprieties.”
He was aware that Augusta was still gritting her teeth as he led her back into the brilliantly lit ballroom.
Much later that evening Harry got out of his carriage in St. James Street and walked up the steps of a certain dignified establishment. The door was opened immediately and he stepped at once into the uniquely comfortable, solidly masculine warmth afforded only by a properly managed gentlemen’s club.
There was nothing else quite like it, Harry reflected as he took a seat near the fire and poured himself a glass of brandy. No wonder Augusta had come up with the notion of entertaining Sally and her friends with a parody of a St. James Street club. A man’s club was a bastion against the world, a refuge, a home away from home where one could either be alone or find companionship, according to one’s personal whim.
In a club a man could relax with friends, win or lose a fortune at the tables, or conduct the most private of business, Harry reflected. He himself had certainly done enough of the last during the past few years.
Although he had been forced to spend much of his time on the continent during the war, he had always made it a point to drop in on his clubs whenever he had been in London. And when he had been unable to keep tabs in person he had made certain to ensure that one or two of his agents had memberships at the more important establishments. The sort of secret intelligence one could glean in this environment never ceased to astound Harry.
He had once learned the name of a man who had been responsible for the death of one of his most valued intelligence officers here in this very club. The killer had suffered an unfortunate accident a short while later.
In another, equally dignified establishment farther along St. James, Harry had contracted to buy the very private journal of a certain courtesan. He had been told the lady enjoyed entertaining the many French spies who, disguised as émigrés, had been sprinkled about London during the war.
It was in the course of deciphering the childishly simple code in which the lady had written her memoirs that Harry had first come across the name Spider. The woman had been killed before Harry had had a chance to talk to her. Her maid had tearfully explained that one of the courtesan’s lovers had stabbed her mistress in a jealous rage. And, no, the distraught maid had absolutely no idea which of her employer’s many lovers had done the deed.
The code name Spider had haunted Harry for the duration of his work for the Crown. Men had died in dark alleys with the word on their lips. Letters from French agents referring to the mysterious Spider had been discovered on the persons of secret couriers. Records of troop movements and maps thought to have been meant for the Spider had been intercepted.
But in the end the identity of the man Harry had early on learned to think of as his personal opponent on the great chessboard of war had remained a mystery. It was unfortunate that he had a difficult time tolerating unsolved puzzles, Harry told himself. He would have given a great deal to have learned the truth about the Spider.
His instincts had assured him from the start that the man had been English, not French. It annoyed Harry that the traitor had escaped detection. Too many good agents and too many honest soldiers had died because of the Spider.
“Trying to read your future in the flames, Graystone? I doubt you’ll find any answers there.”
Harry glanced up as Lovejoy’s drawling voice interrupted his quiet contemplation. “I rather thought you might be along sooner or later, Lovejoy. I wanted to have a word with you.”
“Is that so?” Lovejoy helped himself to br
andy and then leaned negligently against the mantel. He swirled the golden liquid in his glass and his green eyes gleamed malevolently. “First you must allow me to offer you my congratulations on your engagement.”
“Thank you.” Harry waited.
“Miss Ballinger does not seem your type at all. I fear she has inherited the family inclination toward recklessness and mischief. “Twill be an odd match, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“But I do. Mind, that is.” Harry smiled coldly. “I also object to your dancing the waltz with my financée.”
Lovejoy’s expression was one of malicious expectation. “Miss Ballinger is rather fond of the waltz. She tells me she finds me a skilled partner.”
Harry went back to contemplating the fire. “It would be best for all concerned if you found someone else to impress with your dancing skills.”
“And if I do not?” Lovejoy taunted softly.
Harry sighed deeply as he got up from his chair. “If you do not, then you will oblige me to take other measures to protect my fiancée from your attentions.”
“Do you really believe you can do that?”
“Yes,” said Harry. “I believe I can. And I will.” He picked up his unfinished brandy and swallowed what was left in the glass. Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward the door.
So much for rash statements about not getting into duels over women, Harry thought ruefully. He knew he had just come very close to issuing a challenge a moment ago. If Lovejoy did not take a hint, it might very well come to something irritatingly melodramatic such as pistols at dawn.
Harry shook his head. He had only been engaged for two days and already Augusta was having an extremely unsettling effect on his quiet, orderly existence. It certainly made one wonder what life was going to be like after he married the woman.
Augusta sat curled in the blue armchair near the library window and frowned down at the novel in her lap. She had been attempting to read the page in front of her for at least five minutes. But every time she got halfway through the first paragraph she lost her concentration and had to start over again.
It was impossible to think about any subject other than Harry lately. She could not believe the swift, headlong rush of events that had led her to the situation in which she found herself.
Above all, she could not understand her own reaction to those events. From the moments she had found herself on the floor of Harry’s library, swept away by her first taste of passion, she had been going about in a dazed state of mind.
Every time she closed her eyes, she relived the excitement of Harry’s kiss. The heat of his mouth still seared her. The memory of his shockingly intimate touch still had the power to make her weak.
And Harry was still insisting on marriage.
When the door opened she looked up with relief.
“There you are, Augusta. I have been looking for you.” Claudia smiled as she came into the room. “What are you reading? Another novel, I suppose?”
“The Antiquary.” Augusta closed the book. “Very entertaining, with lots of adventure and a lost heir and plenty of narrow escapes.”
“Oh, yes. The new Waverley novel. I should have known. Still trying to work out the identity of the author?”
“It must be Walter Scott. I am absolutely convinced of it.”
“And so are any number of other people, apparently. I vow the fact that the author is keeping his identity a secret is probably contributing greatly to the sale of his books.”
“I do not think so. They are vastly enjoyable stories. They sell for the same reason Byron’s epic poems sell. They are fun to read. One cannot resist turning the pages to see what happens next.”
Claudia gave her a gently reproving look. “Do you not think that, as you are now an engaged woman, you ought to be reading something a bit more elevating in nature? Perhaps one of Mother’s books would be more suited to a lady who is about to become the wife of a serious-minded, well-educated man. You will not want to embarrass the earl with uninformed conversation.”
“If you ask me, Graystone could do with a bit of uninformed conversation,” Augusta muttered. “The man is too straitlaced by half. Do you know he actually told me I should not dance the waltz with Lovejoy?”
“Did he really?” Claudia sat down across from her cousin and poured herself a cup of tea from the pot on the end table.
“Practically ordered me not to do so.”
Claudia considered that. “Perhaps that is not such bad advice. Lovejoy is very dashing, I’ll grant you that much, but one cannot help but believe he might not be above taking advantage of a lady who allowed him too many liberties.”
Augusta raised her eyes toward heaven and prayed for patience. “Lovejoy is perfectly manageable and very much a gentleman.” She bit her lip. “Claudia, would you mind very much if I asked you a delicate question? I would like a little advice concerning the proprieties and, frankly, I cannot think of anyone who could give me more accurate information on that sort of thing than you.”
Claudia straightened her already rigid spine and looked gravely attentive. “I shall try to guide you as best I can, Augusta. What is troubling you?”
Augusta abruptly wished she had not started this. But it was too late now. She plunged into the matter that had disturbed her sleep so badly after last night’s ball. “Do you think ’tis true that a gentleman has the right to feel certain promises are made or implied by a lady simply because she allows him to kiss her?”
Claudia frowned, considering the matter closely. “Obviously a lady should not allow anyone except her fiancé or her husband to take such liberties. Mother made that very clear in her Instructions on Behavior and Deportment for Young Ladies.”
“Yes, I know,” Augusta said, growing impatient. “But let us be realistic about this. It happens. People do steal the occasional kiss out in the garden. We all know that. And as long as they are discreet about it nobody feels they have to announce an engagement afterward.”
“We are speaking hypothetically, I assume?” Claudia said with a sudden, sharp glance.
“Absolutely.” Augusta waved a hand airily. “The issue arose during a discussion with some, uh, friends of mine at Pompeia’s and we are all trying to form a proper conclusion as to what is expected of the woman in such a situation.”
“It would no doubt be best if you refrained from being drawn into that sort of discussion, Augusta.”
Augusta ground her teeth. “No doubt. But do you have an answer to the question?”
“Well, I suppose one could say that allowing a man to kiss one is an example of deplorable behavior but not precisely beyond the pale, if you see what I mean. One could wish the lady had a nicer notion of propriety, but one would not condemn her completely for a stolen kiss. At least, I would not do so.”
“Yes, that is exactly my feeling on the matter,” Augusta said eagerly. “And certainly the gentleman involved has no right to think the lady in question had promised to marry him merely because he was such a cad as to steal a kiss.”
“Well …”
“Lord knows, I have wandered out into the garden during a ball and seen any number of gentlemen and ladies embracing. And they did not all rush back into the ballroom and announce their engagements.”
Claudia nodded slowly. “No, I do not think it would be fair of a gentleman to think the lady had made a firm commitment merely on account of a kiss being exchanged.”
Augusta smiled, pleased and relieved. “Not fair in the least. Just what I concluded, Claudia. I am so glad you agree with me.”
“Of course,” Claudia continued thoughtfully, “if there were a bit more than a kiss involved, that would put an entirely different light on the matter.”
Augusta felt suddenly sick. “It would?”
“Yes, definitely.” Claudia took a sip of tea as she pondered the nuances of the hypothetical situation. “Most definitely. If the lady in question responded to such behavior on the part of the gentleman with any degre
e of warmth at all—that is, if she allowed further intimacies, for example, or encouraged him in any way …”
“Yes?” Augusta prompted, dreading the direction in which this was going.
“Then I think that it would be quite fair of the gentleman in question to assume the lady did indeed return his affections. He would have every reason to believe she was plighting her troth by such actions.”
“I see.” Augusta stared glumly down at the novel in her lap. Her mind was suddenly filled with visions of herself lying in disgraceful abandon in Graystone’s arms on the floor of his library. She could feel the heat in her own cheeks and could only pray her cousin would not notice and remark upon it. “What if the gentleman had been a bit too warm in his advances?” she finally ventured cautiously. “What if he had more or less coaxed her into allowing intimacies she had not initially even considered allowing?”
“A lady is responsible for her own reputation,” Claudia said with a lofty certainty that reminded Augusta a great deal of Aunt Prudence. “She must always exercise great care to behave with such perfect propriety that unfortunate situations do not arise in the first place.”
Augusta wrinkled her nose and said nothing.
“And, of course,” Claudia continued gravely, “if the gentleman in question happened to be a man of excellent breeding and possessed of an unimpeachable reputation for honor and propriety, that would make the case even more clear.”
“It would?”
“Oh, yes. One could certainly see why he would have been led to believe certain promises had been made. And a gentleman of such dignity and refined sensibilities would naturally expect the lady’s implied promises to be kept. Her own honor would demand it.”
“That is one of the things I have always admired about you, Claudia. You are four full years younger than I, but you have such clear-sighted notions of what is proper.” Augusta opened her novel and gave her cousin a tight smile. “Tell me, do you sometimes find that a life filled with such perfect propriety tends to be a trifle dull?”
Claudia smiled warmly. “Life has not been the least bit dull since you came to live with us, Augusta. Something of interest seems to be always occurring in your vicinity. Now, I have a question to put to you.”
