As Rich as a Rogue

by Jade Lee

  “Sodding day,” it cried again.

  “No, no, I did not teach you that.”

  Mari glared at the thing, but it just cocked its head and waited.

  “Sodding day,” it chirped.

  “Bloody bird,” she shot back. Then she grabbed her reticule and departed. There was only one woman of her acquaintance who would know the truth of the matter. One woman who would tell her if the problem was wayward or Welsh. One woman—Lady Eleanor—who when finally confronted, answered in two short sentences.

  “Of course the problem’s Welsh. I thought you knew.”

  No, she hadn’t. But now that she did, she planned to make a few significant changes to her wardrobe, her attitude, to her whole public persona. If she didn’t have to fight the idea she was wayward—

  “But it shouldn’t make any difference,” said Lady Eleanor, interrupting Mari’s excited plans.

  Mari jolted. “Of course it does. It means I’ve been fighting the wrong label.”

  “But you still want to marry an influential man. And that means you have to remain circumspect. You need to be an asset to the powerful, not a detriment.”

  Oh. Of course.

  It took Mari a moment to get over how crushed she felt. Once again, she’d thought to escape her self-imposed prison, but it was not to be. She had to stay the course.

  “Thank you, Lady Eleanor. I can see that my thoughts ran away with me.”

  “You really should stay away from Lord Whitly. He seems to have a deleterious effect on your wits.”

  Mari nodded as she blocked the memory of his kiss from her brain. “I completely agree,” she forced herself to say. “In the future, I shall avoid all contact with him.” Even if it was a kiss. Even if it was a lot of wonderful kisses.

  Lady Eleanor beamed. “I knew you were a bright girl.”

  * * *

  “You’re looking eminently respectable this evening.”

  Mari was feeling rather old today as she stood languishing at the come-out ball of yet another debutante. Six Seasons was too long for any maiden, and she very much feared that Wayward Welsh was going to give way any moment to Ape Leader. But she had to keep a positive outlook despite her fears. So she turned to Ashley Tucker, Lord Rimbury, and gave her new friend her brightest smile, even though he obviously disagreed with the sameness of her attire.

  “Thank you,” she said sweetly. “I’m rewarding myself for a week of completely proper behavior.”

  He arched a brow at her bland yellow gown. “That’s a reward?”

  “It has white dots.”

  “Really?” He squinted at her gown. “Damned if I see them.”

  “They’re very tiny dots.”

  “I’d look closer, but I believe at least two of the dowagers would beat me about the ears with their canes.”

  “Yes, they probably would.” As usual, she was standing near enough to the older ladies so she could be called to their side at a moment’s notice. It was the only way she kept herself from dancing too much.

  Meanwhile, she was pleased with the distraction that Lord Rimbury afforded her from feeling too old. “I’ve had a very productive day. This morning I spoke with a dog trainer, and I have high hopes for teaching Greenie my phrase.”

  His smile turned lugubrious, which on him was a very droll look. “Then I congratulate you on your progress, if not your choice of celebration.”

  She laughed merrily—but not too loudly—and then turned her attention to the gathering. “I think the dancing will begin soon,” she said. The musicians had pulled out their instruments.

  “I would beg for a dance, but I know you prefer to talk.”

  Not true. She preferred to dance, but as she was being circumspect, he was one of the few gentlemen with whom she had equal delight in conversation. Therefore, if she had to sit out, then at least she could do it with someone who was entertaining.

  “I have reserved your usual spot at the dance just before supper,” she told him, showing him where she had scrawled his name on her card.

  “Then I shall be delighted to escort you early to the buffet tables. I hear Mr. Hario sets an excellent table.”

  She nodded, knowing this was likely Lord Rimbury’s only meal today. It was the other reason she reserved the dance before supper for him. This way she could be sure he had plenty to eat well before the food ran out. Her father had named Lord Rimbury “another damned impoverished nob,” but she rather liked his gloomy sense of humor. He adored giving dire predictions about everyone and everything, and that never failed to make her laugh. And sure enough, a moment later, he was gesturing at a dandy across the room.

  “I wager that Baron Pattinson rips the lace off his cuff within the hour.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mari countered. “The baron is a fop of the first order. He wouldn’t be casual with that lace any more than I would suddenly toss away my favorite fan.”

  “Ah, but the baron is trying to attract a new mistress.”

  Lord Rimbury also had the best gossip, usually tidbits that rarely reached an unwed lady’s ears. “What, here? This is a coming-out ball.”

  “I never said the man was smart. Only that as men, we cock up the thing we love most. It’s in our nature. And for Baron Pattinson, that means…ah…there it is. Spilled wine on his sleeve.”

  Sure enough, the baron was now red-faced with fury at the Corinthian who had been careless with his wine. Unless it was done on purpose.

  And as if reading her mind, Lord Rimbury answered her unspoken question. “Deliberate. Definitely.”

  “But—”

  “Those two have despised each other since the baron married the beauty and the Corinthian got the prune-faced one.” His voice dropped to a depressed register. “It’s on account of the baron being worth five times as much, even though he is ridiculous. You ladies are a terrible curse to us men, you know.”

  “Well, it’s because you always…” She hesitated, wondering if she could actually say it. But the interest in his eyes made her lift her chin. “Because you always cock up when it’s most important.”

  “Wisely said, Miss Powel.”

  “You said it first.”

  “I know.” He gave her a mournful face, which made her laugh all the more. After a week of such exchanges, she might have been completely smitten except for one thing. For all his joking, she detected an undercurrent of bitterness. He truly did believe that men always cocked it up and that a woman was always the cause.

  A week of this was only mildly irritating. A lifetime of it would be tedious in the extreme. So she enjoyed his company, tried to shine in her patterned gown, and waited for a better choice of husband.

  “Peter Norwood, Lord Whitly.”

  She looked to the top of the stairs at the announcement. His was the one name she would always react to, for good or ill. And there he was at the top of the stairs, looking larger than life. He was outfitted in a jacket that fitted his wide shoulders to perfection. A snowy-white cravat flashed a large emerald in the center. Narrow waist, long legs, and an arrogant lift to his chin completed the picture of aristocratic perfection. The sight of him made her breath catch. She also found herself pressing her fingers to her lips as she remembered their delicious kiss.

  “Don’t look so impressed,” murmured Lord Rimbury. “He’ll find a way to cock it up.”

  “There’s nothing to cock up,” she said primly as she whipped her hand from her mouth. It was all she could manage. Apparently her gaze wouldn’t leave Lord Whitly as he descended the stairs and greeted their hosts. For such a large man, he moved so fluidly. “He was still wrong in what he said to me, but I may not be as angry as I was before.”

  She finally managed to tear her gaze away from Lord Whitly to look at Rimbury. “You said you’ve known him for years?”

  “Since we were boys.”
r />   “And you’ve remained friends?”

  “For the most part.”

  “Then there was no woman to destroy your friendship? No harpy who tore you apart?”

  She hadn’t thought it possible. Suddenly, Lord Rimbury’s face drew in tight, and his eyes looked deeply sad. Always he was dramatic in his expression, but never with this quiet dread. “Not yet,” he said softly. “But the evening is still young.”

  She meant to ask him to explain, but at that moment the musicians began their first dance. Mr. Hario escorted his daughter Isabelle onto the floor. The girl was dressed in white with deep blue ribbons for accents. It was a perfect come-out gown for a young lady who couldn’t stop grinning. This was her night, and Mari smiled to see the delight in the child’s face.

  “Are there dots on this dress, or did you spill something on it?” a rich voice said. Lord Whitly, of course. His tone was matter-of-fact, almost dismissive, but he had one of those voices that rumbled excitingly on the ear no matter what he said.

  “Dots,” she snapped. “It’s a pattern.” She hadn’t meant to sound quite so shrewish.

  “It looks like you spilled milk on it. The dots aren’t even regular.”

  “That’s part of the pattern.”

  “I think it looks bloody ridiculous. Why wear a pattern that doesn’t look like a real pattern, especially since almost no one can see it?”

  “Because it’s not wayward, you oaf!” Less than one minute in his company, and she was on the verge of screaming. Fortunately for her, Lord Rimbury was standing in earshot and suddenly burst out laughing. And when both she and Lord Whitly looked at him, he shrugged.

  “I told you,” he said, still chuckling. “We can’t help it.”

  “Ash,” Lord Whitly grumbled, “what are you going on about?”

  “Peter,” Lord Rimbury returned in exactly the same tone, “whatever possessed you to come to a ball in such a state?”

  Lord Whitly looked down at himself. “Is this not the right fashion?” Then he smoothed down his hair. “Have I got it wrong?”

  “You look most elegant,” Lord Rimbury said with a grin.

  “It’s your behavior that is lacking, my lord,” Mari clarified.

  At which point the man frowned at her, then his cheeks pinkened. She wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it. He appeared embarrassed, perhaps even ashamed.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, and she could detect no lie in his words. Then he stepped back and executed a handsome bow. “Miss Powel, a pleasure to see you this evening.”

  She dropped into a curtsy. “Lord Whitly, I see you have returned to London.”

  “Yes.” Then he stood there, staring at her as the conversation lagged. Finally she decided it was incumbent upon her to speak.

  “Was your trip successful? You didn’t tell me where you were going.”

  “Successful?” He reached back, likely to rub a hand over the back of his neck, but was stopped by his clothing. He ended up upsetting his hair instead. “I suppose in a way.”

  “Where did you go? You never said.”

  “To the family estate in Lincolnshire.” His expression softened. “It’s beautiful this time of year. Actually it’s beautiful every time of year. I’ve missed it.”

  “India did not compare?”

  “To the green fields of Kesteven? Not in the least.”

  The set was forming up, and her partner came to her side, bowing perfectly before her, his expression fashionably bored. He acted the proper gentleman, and she found him much less interesting than Lord Whitly. Still, she must keep to the proprieties.

  “If you’ll excuse me. I believe Mr. Midean has come to claim his dance.”

  “Of course.” But then he held out his hand to her arm, stopping her. “But if I may, is there a dance left for me?” He quickly caught her arm and stroked over her glove until he grabbed the dance card attached to her wrist.

  “Perhaps it would be better if—” she began, but he was already scrawling his name boldly across two lines. He returned her card to her, releasing her arm much more slowly. His fingers seemed to linger on her glove, and the heat burned through the fabric as if it were parchment. Her lips began to tingle in memory, and she was so distracted by the dual sensations that she didn’t at first realize what he had done. But then she forced herself to look away from his eyes and down at the card. “You’ve claimed two waltzes,” she said.

  He nodded, his gaze almost distracted. “I cannot understand why they weren’t claimed, but never fear. You shall have a partner now.”

  Meaning him, obviously, the dolt. As if she couldn’t get a partner without his beneficence. “That’s because I don’t dance the waltz,” she said firmly.

  That brought his gaze back hard to her. “You don’t dance it? Whyever not? It’s all the rage in India.”

  “I’ve never received permission.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. She’d never asked for permission. Even though every other debutante eventually got the nod for the scandalous dance, she’d never taken the risk, fearing it would appear too wayward.

  “That’s nonsense,” he said. “You’re not a green girl. Just dance it.”

  She didn’t dare, and she was about to say so, but she’d run out of time. The first notes of the next dance had started, and Mr. Midean was clearly irritated. That would never do. He was a rising star in the legal arena, and she considered him an excellent potential husband. Number 31 on her list, in fact. Her father wanted a title, but she was more interested in intelligence and potential influence, which Mr. Midean had in abundance. So she pushed Lord Whitly from her thoughts—or she made a valiant attempt at it—and turned her smile onto Mr. Midean.

  An hour later, she was still thinking of Lord Whitly instead of her dance partners. She’d seen him talk with Lord Rimbury, then steadily make the rounds of the room. He greeted many people, danced with a few young misses, especially the wallflowers, which she thought was sweet, and then sort of meandered about the room.

  If he’d settled with one knot of gentlemen or another, she would have known better what to think of him. If he’d stood with the bankers, well then he was a man of finance. If he’d stayed to chat with the politicals, then she could classify him with them. It was clear from his dress that he was neither dandy nor Corinthian, though he was greeted by both sets.

  In truth, he seemed to be wandering in search of something or exploring to some mysterious purpose. But what? She hadn’t the slightest clue, except he spent an inordinate amount of time catching her looking at him. Annoying man. What was he doing watching her so closely? And why was she looking back all the time?

  She refocused on her partner, finished the set, and then instead of wandering to where Lady Eleanor was holding court—which happened to be near where Lord Whitly stood talking with an aging solicitor—she went to her more typical place near the dowagers. They greeted her like a Greek chorus, all happily in accord. But that lasted only as long as it took for them to smile.

  “Goodness, my dear, we all thought you’d forgotten about us.”

  “Of course not—”

  “Lady Mary here thinks Mrs. Wotton has suffered a brain fever that hurt her sense of color. Look at that gown. It’s purple!”

  Mari glanced across the room at the gown in question. It was a beautiful color in her estimation, and worn by a married woman with two nearly grown girls. Eminently proper, but apparently the dowagers didn’t agree. She was about to express that she admired the gown, but Lady Mary spoke first. “Mari dear, will you pick up my shawl? It seems to have fallen, and Lily will step on it before long.”

  “Of course—”

  “I wouldn’t step on it if it wasn’t always underfoot.” An aged hand clutched at her elbow. “Would you mind getting us something to drink? I don’t know about these footmen. Not a one has come ’ro
und to bring us refreshments. Most disgraceful.”

  Then they were back to being a Greek chorus, all nodding as they disparaged the staff at various parties dating back two score years.

  She left them to it, heading to the tepid punch. She would have to make several trips for all of them, but she was used to it by now. She was just considering whether she could manage a fourth full glass without spilling when they were all plucked from her arms by a set of large hands.

  “What—”

  “Why the devil are you acting as a servant?” Lord Whitly’s expression was fierce, and his hair had gone even more askew than before.

  “I was getting drinks for the dowagers. They—”

  “I’m well aware of what you’re doing, but it’s not your job.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Of course it’s not my job, but they’re thirsty, and no one—”

  He snapped his fingers beneath one footman’s nose. “You will get a tray and serve every one of those ladies punch. And claret. And anything else they want. Do you understand?”

  “But…but, sir…” The hapless man gestured to the punch bowl. Apparently his job was to pour lemonade.

  “What is your name, young man?”

  “Thompson.”

  “Well, Thompson, I expect you are capable of figuring out how to have the lemonade bowl manned and get the ladies their drinks, are you not?”

  “Er, yes, sir.”

  “My lord,” Mari corrected.

  “What?” The man turned widened eyes to her. Truly he was rather young, and she felt bad for putting him on the spot like this.

  “This is Lord Whitly, young Thompson. And I shall stand here and explain the situation to anyone who asks. So do what you must to get the ladies served.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  She smiled at the boy, and he blushed all the way up through his ears. But then paled when Lord Whitly practically growled at him.

  “She isn’t waiting long, Thompson. Go.”

  “Oh! Yes, sir. Er, my lord. Um…”

  Lord Whitly bared his teeth and made shooing motions. The footman scampered away.

  “And that,” said Mari, “is why I gave up trying to get the servants to carry the drinks. You’ve not only frightened that poor boy—”