He closed his eyes briefly. If he could remember how many glasses of brandy he’d had, he’d vow never to have so many again.
He regarded her glowering countenance. “Er, good morning.” He sounded perfectly sober, if he said so himself. “It’s, ah, a lovely morning, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not.” She blew out a short, sharp breath and pushed her hair back out of her face. Her green eyes were as stormy as a wind-tossed ocean, full of passion…
Perhaps he should swear off brandy entirely, though drink had never made him so lustful before.
“I mean…” She swallowed, obviously trying to get her spleen under control. “That is, yes, it is a lovely morning. How nice of you to say so after Harry caused you to fall into the mud. I apologize for his behavior.”
Mmm, that voice. He’d so like to hear it threaded with need and desire, panting his name—
Definitely no more brandy.
“He’s a sheep dog,” the woman said. “I imagine he was trying to herd you away from the puddle, not into it.” She reached back to reclaim her bonnet.
Oh, no. He couldn’t let her cover her beautiful curls again with that monstrosity. His hand shot out, plucked the millinery mistake from her fingers, and dropped it into the mud. He mashed it down with his foot for good measure.
“My bonnet!” Lady Anne Marston gaped down at her poor bonnet, flattened under this rude person’s shoe. What sort of gentleman attacked a woman’s hat?
No sort of gentleman. The man might be handsome as sin with his startlingly clear blue eyes and shaggy, sun-streaked hair, but handsome is as handsome does—she had learned that lesson beyond hope of forgetting—and destroying a woman’s bonnet was not handsomely done.
She drew in a breath to tell him exactly what she thought of such behavior—and stopped. Was that brandy she smelled? Certainly the man wasn’t foxed at 10 o’clock in the morning!
“Your bonnet is an abomination,” he said.
“It is not!” And now he was insulting her as well. That was her favorite bonnet under his foot. It might not be stylish—she wasn’t stylish—but she liked it. She’d had it for years.
“You didn’t buy it in London, did you?”
She gritted her teeth. “Of course not. London bonnets are frilly, silly dabs of straw and feathers and gewgaws. I need something serviceable.”
She should leave. Yes, the man had landed in the mud, but it was probably more his fault than Harry’s. Drunkards were notoriously unsteady. She tugged on Harry’s leash, but the idiotic animal stayed where he was, at this human animal’s feet.
“Serviceable?” He ground her poor hat deeper into the muck. “How could this atrocity be the least bit serviceable?”
“It protected me from the sun”—and kept critical eyes off my disreputable hair.
She would admit that last only to herself, certainly not to him. What did this fellow know of the matter anyway? He didn’t have red hair—though, being a man, he probably wouldn’t care if he did.
He snorted. “It protected you from the sun and every male who saw you in it, I’ll wager.”
Oh, she’d like to kick the cod’s-head exactly where it would hurt him most. He didn’t think she was some silly miss on the catch for a husband, did he? “I’d hoped it would protect me from annoying men”—she sniffed, giving him her best pretention-depressing look—“such as yourself.”
He chuckled. “Now that’s put me in my place, hasn’t it? And here I just rescued you from the ugliest bonnet in Britain.” He leaned forward slightly, sending another whiff of brandy her way. “When you go looking for a replacement, try Madam de Fleur’s on Bond Street. Fleur’s hats are far more attractive.”
Of course this fribble would be an expert in female fashion. She jerked on Harry’s leash again; Harry merely yawned. “You are drunk, sir.”
He nodded, looking not the least bit repentant. “I’m very much afraid that I am.”
“Did you rise early, then, to begin your debauchery?” It was a shame—in an academic, aesthetic sense only, of course—that such a handsome man was so dissipated.
“Er, no. I haven’t yet been to bed.”
“You haven’t?” She looked at his clothes more closely. Under all the mud they were indeed evening wear.
And under the clothes were exceptionally broad shoulders, a flat stomach, narrow hips…She flushed. Damn her coloring. She squeezed her eyes shut and drew in a deep breath—still tainted with the scent of brandy. What was the matter with her? She was not interested in men, certainly not this man.
“I don’t believe I’ve engaged in any debauchery yet this morning…”
He paused suggestively, and, damn it, she couldn’t keep her eyes shut. She looked at him.
“…but I’d be willing to attempt some now, if you’d like.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Surprisingly, she had to swallow a laugh instead of a gasp.
His eyes gleamed and his lips slid slowly into a smile—with dimples, blast it all. “Care to tuck me into bed?”
“No!” This man was the very worst sort of London coxcomb she could imagine—had imagined when she’d worried about this unfortunate trip these last few months. Only, he didn’t seem so bad. He seemed…amused and amusing.
The horrifying truth was part of her did wish to tuck the handsome rascal in. “Behave yourself.”
Hadn’t she learned her lesson ten years ago? Apparently not if the odd warmth in her belly—lower than her belly—was any indication.
She would not let herself be taken in again. This man might not seem like Lord Brentwood on the surface, but his heart was likely as black. His heart and another, specifically male organ.
“Oh, well.” He shrugged. “I’ll be off to bed straightaway then once I’ve seen you home.” He raised his brows, looking ridiculously hopeful. “If you’re certain you’d not like to read me a bedtime story at least?”
She turned another laugh into a cough. The fellow was indeed an accomplished seducer if he could charm her well-armored heart. She must be sure to keep her half sister away from him. At eighteen, Evie was too young to have learned to be suspicious of handsome scoundrels. “Quite certain. And there is no need for you to escort me.”
“Oh, but there is. You know I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t see you safely home.”
She turned her nose up at him. “You are not a gentleman—and I am quite all right by myself.”
“No, you’re not. A gently bred woman needs a male to protect her.”
She glared. “I have Harry—he is both male and protective.”
“And you have no control over him.”
“Oh, and I have more control over you?”
The moment the last word left her lips, she froze, as if she’d shocked herself, and then bit her lip and flushed. Her eyes dropped in apparent embarrassment—and focused on his crotch.
Damn. He wasn’t about to hide behind his hands like a bashful virgin, but if she stared at him much longer, she would get quite an education in male anatomy.
“I assure you, I can find my way home by myself.” Her eyes moved on to her dog, thank God. “Forgive me for not apologizing earlier for the state of your clothing. I intended to immediately”—her eyes came back up to scowl at him—“and would have if you hadn’t accosted my bonnet.”
“I wouldn’t have accosted your bonnet,” he said, stepping on it once more and twisting his foot to grind it farther into the grime, “if it hadn’t so vilely accosted my eyes and my male sensibilities.”
She pressed her lips into a tight line, obviously wishing to brangle with him, but equally obviously restraining herself. Too bad. He found sparring with her surprisingly stimulating.
She took a deep breath, causing her formless bodice to swell in a rather interesting fashion. “In any event,” she said, “Harry was at fault.” She dropped her eyes to his muddied cravat. “Your clothing is likely irreparably damaged; my father will wish to make it right. Please have your bills sent to Lo
rd Crane.”
“Ah.” That was why he didn’t know her. Crane spent even less time in London than Stephen did. “So you’re Crazy Crane’s daughter.”
He was sober enough to notice her flinch, but she must be used to hearing the nickname. Everyone called Crane crazy. His passion for finding antiquities was even greater than Stephen’s for discovering new plant species. The word at White’s was the earl had come to Town—briefly, as it turned out—to fire off his daughter on the Marriage Mart. Stephen frowned. He was drunk, but he wasn’t completely disguised. This girl was too old to be a debutante.
“So you’re here to find a husband?” he asked.
Her brows snapped down as her eyes snapped back to his face. “Of course not.” She curled her delightful upper lip slightly. “Were you quaking in your boots?”
“Don’t have boots.” He lifted his foot to show her and almost left his shoe in the quagmire. “And you don’t scare me. I’ve been dodging debutantes for years—though you do seem a little long in the tooth to be just making your bows.”
“I am twenty-seven”—it sounded as if she were gritting her teeth again—“not that it is any of your business. It is my half sister who is being introduced to the ton.”
“Ah!” He nodded. Now he remembered. “You’re Crane’s older daughter, the one by his first wife. The bluestocking as opposed to the—”
A sliver of sobriety wormed its way into his sodden brain. He coughed.
“As opposed to the beauty.” She sounded indifferent, but he saw the hurt in her eyes before she turned abruptly and started walking briskly toward Grosvenor Gate. Even Harry gave him a reproachful look as he left.
Damn. That hadn’t been well done of him. He should let her go. She would not want to spend another moment in his presence.
He couldn’t let her go. He did not break hearts, nor offend anyone, at least unintentionally. He had to apologize. He took off after her.
Crane’s daughter—what was her name? Damned if he could remember. No one at White’s had talked much about the bluestocking—who had a long stride, but she was hampered by her skirts, and Stephen was used to walking long distances. He caught up to her quickly.
As he feared, she was crying.
“Go away.” She wouldn’t look at him.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that quite the way it sounded.”
She snorted—and then had to sniff repeatedly. He offered her his handkerchief.
“Thank you.” She glared at him briefly, her eyes quite red behind her spectacles. He took Harry’s leash, so she could blow her nose, which she did rather defiantly. She looked anywhere but at him.
He felt an odd pain in his chest. A bout of indigestion, most likely. He’d certainly had too much to drink. Once he saw Lady…Lady…
“Er, you never told me your name.”
She shrugged. “And you never told me yours.”
“So I didn’t.” He inclined his head. “Stephen Parker-Roth, at your service.”
“What?” She stumbled on a crack in the pavement. He reached to grab her, but she avoided his hand. “The King of Hearts?”
“Ah, well, yes, some people call me that.” He cleared his throat. “I’m rather good—or lucky—with cards.”
Cards? Anne sniffed. “It’s not cards you’re good with.”
“It is.”
The rogue looked like a blasted choir boy, as sinless as a cherub, but she knew through long association with her half brothers not to trust that mask of innocence. “Oh?” She allowed her skepticism to show in her voice.
He had the grace to laugh. “I grant you my skill with cards is not the only reason I got that dam—er, unfortunate nickname.” He raised his brows. “How do you know it, Lady—” He frowned. “Devil a bit, I still don’t know your name.”
She might as well tell him. He would learn it soon enough once the Season got underway. “Anne. My name is Lady Anne.”
“Lady Anne,” he said.
Her name sounded like someone else’s when he said it—someone beautiful, or at least someone interesting. Someone he was interested in.
Idiot! Only a complete noddy would think the King of Hearts could have the slightest interest in a red-headed, bespectacled bluestocking. She was glad he wasn’t interested in her. She wasn’t interested in him.
She was a terrible liar.
“So how is it, Lady Anne, that you know my nickname when you have so recently arrived in Town? If gossip is correct, the earl dumped you—” He coughed. “I mean deposited you at Crane House just yesterday.”
Dumped was the correct description. Papa could barely stand to pause the coach long enough to let her, Evie, and the boys out. He certainly hadn’t waited for their baggage to arrive; he and Georgiana were far too anxious to get to the docks and board their ship for Greece. Fortunately Cousin Clorinda, being in London already, had moved in the day before, but things were still very much at sixes and sevens.
“The London papers come even to the country, you know.”
He raised one eyebrow and looked annoyingly superior. “So you can peruse the gossip columns?”
She glared at him. “So I can read the entire paper.”
And, yes, perhaps she had paid particular attention to gossip concerning the K—of H—. She’d taken an interest—a scholarly interest—in him. She’d come across an article in Papa’s Gentleman’s Magazine a year or two ago, an account Mr. Parker-Roth had written describing one of his plant hunting expeditions. He’d sounded exceptionally intelligent and rather intrepid—obviously he’d learned how to be as cozening in print as in person.
She flushed. She’d dreamt about him once or twice, too. She was lonely on occasion—well, most of the time. He’d caught her fancy—what harm was there in a little romantic woolgathering? She was never going to meet him.
Except she just had.
One would think a twenty-seven-year-old spinster would have more sense, especially a woman with her experience.
Apparently, one would be wrong.
Traffic was beginning to pick up. The streets and walks had been deserted when she’d left Crane House earlier—a very good thing as she’d had to run to keep up with Harry. Of course now the stupid dog was walking sedately at Mr. Parker-Roth’s side.
“The ton is always making up nicknames for people,” he was saying. “They’ll probably christen you and your sister as soon as you attend your first social event.”
“I sincerely hope not.” Blast it, how was she going to navigate these treacherous social waters with only Cousin Clorinda to help her? She bit her lip. It was just like Papa and Georgiana to go off to dig in the dirt, leaving her in charge of the children. Not that Evie was a child any longer. Of course not. They wouldn’t be in this mess if she were.
She swallowed a sigh. Thankfully, Evie was a sensible girl—but Anne had considered herself sensible once, too. All it had taken was one experienced, London beau paying her a little attention—
Dear God, what if Brentwood was here in Town?
She struggled to take a deep breath. No, she couldn’t be that unlucky. She’d been reading the gossip columns very carefully for weeks and had not seen his name.
But if he were in London—
It didn’t matter. The…event had happened so long ago and been such a small occurrence in his life, he must not remember a bit of it.
“A penny for your thoughts, Lady Anne.”
Her heart thudded into her throat. “I, ah, wasn’t thinking about anything.”
“No? You looked—”
“Oh, yes, look, here we are at Crane House already.” Thank God! “What a surprise. I don’t know how we got here so quickly.” She was blathering, but if she kept talking, he couldn’t ask her questions she didn’t want to answer. “Thank you for escorting me and for taking charge of Harry. If you will just give me his leash, you can get”—she hadn’t been about to say he could get to bed, had she?—“that is, you can be about your business.” She smiled, or at
least tried to, and held out her hand. If she was lucky, she would never see him again.
Ha! She might hope she wouldn’t see him, but she was here for the whole cursed Season. She couldn’t hide in her room and send Evie to the parties and balls with only odd, elderly Cousin Clorinda as chaperone.
Perhaps Mr. Parker-Roth would leave London tomorrow to hunt for greenery in some exotic—and very distant—location. She would add that thought to her prayers tonight.
“Lady Anne,” he said, looking far too serious all of a sudden.
“Mr. Parker-Roth, I should go. Cousin Clorinda and my sister must be wondering where I am—”
She glanced up. What if someone looked out a window and saw her conversing with Mr. Parker-Roth? She and he would be quite recognizable—neither was wearing a hat. Their faces were evident for any curious spectator to see.
Whom was she kidding? It wasn’t only her face she had to hide—her unfortunate hair was a blazing beacon, proclaiming her identity to anyone not colorblind.
Perhaps no one would look. It was early for most of the ton…but Lady Dunlee lived next door and she had a nose for even the faintest whiff of scandal. Cousin Clorinda had warned Anne about the woman the moment Anne had crossed Crane House’s threshold—and Lady Dunlee herself had already stopped Anne to let her know the boys had been teasing her nasty gray cat.
“But I never properly apologized,” Mr. Parker-Roth said. Harry sat calmly at his feet. Why wouldn’t that dog behave for her?
“No apology is necessary. Now, please—”
He touched her lips with his gloveless fingers. She froze.
Oh.
His skin was slightly rough—he clearly used his hands for more than raising a quizzing glass or shuffling cards—and warm.
All of a sudden, she didn’t care about the windows overlooking the square.
“I don’t want you to think you aren’t beautiful.” His fingers slipped sideways to cradle her jaw; his thumb moved back and forth over her bottom lip. “You are.”
He was an enchanter, that was it, weaving a spell around her. Faintly, very faintly, she heard the voice of reason warning her about gossip and Lady Dunlee, but for the first time in a decade, she ignored it. Her hands crept up to rest on his broad, solid chest.
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