by Kim Bowman
Lord Jonathan cleared his throat. “I saw your father’s coach at the livery this morning. How is the renovation on your stable?”
Grey’s eyes flickered with an emotion Juliet couldn’t define before he turned his attention to his friend. “I am assured the work is on schedule to be completed within a month’s time.” He sighed. “I must admit to growing impatient with the waiting.”
“Did I see you and your trainer working with a new sweet-stepper at the livery?” Lord Jonathan asked.
“Indeed, you did.” Grey’s countenance lost the slightly bored expression he’d worn throughout supper — when he wasn’t favoring Juliet with one of his guarded glances. “I found him in the north of Spain a month past when I traveled there for some estate business.”
“His conformation looked excellent.” Lord Jon gestured with a bit of Shrewsbury biscuit. “Rich color he’s got. A prime bit of blood. How old is he?”
Juliet scooped up the last of the syllabub from the crystal bowl. With great effort, she refrained from thoroughly licking the spoon. As she set the utensil down next to her plate, something brushed her knee. She stiffened and glanced at the duke. Had he been so bold as to touch her on the knee? His own sister?
But he was still occupied in conversation with the Earl of Seabrook. “He’s a three-year-old but quite wild with it. Arden has been having a devil of a time breaking him to the harness.”
“You have the carriage in mind for him, then?”
The brush along her knee repeated, more insistently this time, and she jerked, bumping her hand into her empty dessert bowl with a clatter. When the touch came again, it was accompanied by snuffling sounds.
Percy.
Juliet had quite forgotten that Lord Lucien had a habit of bringing the dog to the table. And now the pesky creature was poking his nose at her leg. She eased her hand below the table and shooed the dog away. He backed off for but a moment before he began snuffling at her lap again. She swatted harder this time, and her hand met soft wool encasing a firm, round knee.
“It’s not that he’s not fit as a mount but he has perfect—” The duke jerked his head in Juliet’s direction just as she snatched her hand away. He raked his eyes from her face to her arm where it rested in her lap and then back up, that maddening one eyebrow quirked upward. He cleared his throat and turned back to the Earl of Seabrook. “The perfect form for the carriage and with his dark color, he’ll look splendid in front of a new sort of gig I’ve just commissioned.”
Juliet felt the heat in her cheeks and knew her face had colored up. Percy placed a paw on her leg and stuck his nose in her lap. “Go on, get,” she whispered fiercely, wiggling in her seat to get away from him.
Lady Harmony leaned toward Juliet. “My dear, whatever is the matter?” she asked from behind her hand.
“It’s the ruddy dog,” muttered Juliet, frustrated with the entire circumstance. She shoved at Percy with her foot but instead managed to plant the pointed toe of her shoe squarely in the Duke of Wyndham’s shin.
Grey yelped in surprised pain just as Percy forced his way over Juliet’s knee. With a shriek, she pushed back from the table, hauling Percy with her. As she stood up, the dog dropped to the floor, but not before he managed to grab the napkin she’d laid across her lap. With the bit of cloth clutched in his teeth like a hapless rabbit, Percy shook his head as though trying to break the neck of his prey. The napkin opened and his next shake sent white gobs sailing through the air to pelt Grey in the face with creamed turnips.
Grey shoved his own chair backward and leapt to his feet. “What the devil?” He lifted a hand to his cheek just as the biggest lump of turnip slid off his jaw to land on his shoulder with a soft plop.
Juliet stood rooted in place, eyes wide, jaw slack.
Lady Charity was the first to speak. “Now that’s not something you see every day.”
“I say, is she foxed?” asked Lord Green Coat at the far end of the table.
“If you ask me, she’s half-sprung,” announced Lady Spider. “Did you see the way she took to the syllabub? It’s all that sherry in the recipe.” She clamped her mouth shut and shook her head.
The hum of conversation filled the room again. They were talking about her. Juliet stared at them all in horror. Her chest heaved as she struggled to pull in enough air. What had made her think she could trick Annabella’s brother? The room began a slow spin, and colors blurred together. Juliet glanced over her shoulder at the archway to the foyer, desperate for a means of escape.
Strong hands settled on her shoulders, steadying her. Then the duke whispered in her ear, his voice so soft Juliet was uncertain he actually spoke. “Swoon.”
Juliet blinked in shock. What on earth was he suggesting?
“You want to make your exit, faint in my arms,” he murmured, speaking quickly. “Are you unwell, Annabella?” he asked more loudly.
He planned to rescue her from certain death by embarrassment. She didn’t have a care why he might do such a thing. Placing the back of her left hand limply across her forehead, Juliet simply allowed her legs to go flaccid and collapsed into Grey’s waiting arms with a dramatic sigh.
A collected murmur rose in the room but Juliet forced her eyes to remain closed, even when Grey swung her easily into his arms.
“Please forgive our niece,” Lady Harmony begged as Grey cradled Juliet. “I’m afraid she simply isn’t… herself just now.”
****
Not herself, indeed. Lady Harmony had a propensity for understating what should have been obvious to all of his guests. Grey ground his teeth as he stared at the remnants of the dinner party. The white linen tablecloth had been pulled askew, with china now perched perilously close to the edge where his stepsister had been seated. Two footmen rushed to right the place setting with jerky movements, but they faltered under Grey’s angry glare.
“That chit needs some lessons in manners, if you ask me,” Lucien announced with a tsking sound. “Why, even Lord Percy has been the picture of propriety tonight.”
“Really, now.” Lord Amory grunted. “Was that before or after he hit his grace in the face with a turnip and then ran off clutching a scrap of linen in his jaws?” The Earl of Fenimore’s wheezing laughter sent a slow burn along Grey’s neck.
With widened eyes, Lucien lifted the white linen tablecloth, bent to the side, and peered beneath the table. Moments later his head popped back up. “The devil you say! Lord Perceval, come back here this instant.” He leapt from his seat and half waddled his rotund form around the end of the table.
Grey cast a fierce look in his uncle’s direction, but the old fool never saw it. With a growl forming in the back of his throat, Grey turned and strode across the patterned red Turkish carpet with his surprisingly light burden.
As they crossed the drafty foyer, his stepsister shivered, reminding Grey that the girl hadn’t truly fainted but had simply followed his orders to swoon. At least she’d done something right. It had been the only way he could think of to end the ludicrous scene at the dinner table with any sort of grace. Blast his uncle and that wretched cur he insisted on treating like a royal heir. And blast the slip of a chit he held in his arms. He ought to drag her to the livery posthaste and put her on a coach bound for the country.
Grey’s ire at the situation rose a notch as he entered the drawing room. The golden glow of the fire broke through the chill of the evening air, and he dumped the young woman from his arms onto the Grecian couch without ceremony.
A maid entered behind him, lit the chandelier in the center of the room, and then discreetly slipped out.
Hands on his hips, Grey surveyed the chit who had shown up on his doorstep six days prior and done nothing but cut up his peace since her arrival. Her golden brown hair had fallen from the elaborate style she’d affected earlier and most of it formed a cloud around her head. In her pale yellow gown, she looked like some sort of garden flower, a bud yet to bloom into its true beauty, lying against the green velvet of his couch. He shif
ted his stance, acknowledging his thought as further proof that all was not as it had seemed.
“You may as well open your eyes,” he snapped. “We’re quite alone.”
One eyelid fluttered, then slowly opened, followed in quick order by the other. In the firelight, her tawny eyes gleamed the color of soft caramel. Would that her personality be as sweet as those eyes. Impatiently, Grey pushed the thought aside.
She kept her gaze on him as she slid her feet to the floor and slowly came to a demure sitting position with her hands in her lap. But no amount of decorum could hide the fire in her eyes.
“Would you care to explain yourself?” asked Grey.
“I-I-I’m s-sorry. It — it was the dog, you see...” She shrank back into the couch at his quelling glance.
“The dog? The dog addled your brain so you didn’t know how to behave properly at a meal?” Grey folded his arms across his chest lest he take her by the shoulders and shake her. “The dog stole away your taste for those despicable creamed turnips?”
A weak smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You don’t like them, either?”
“Don’t like them?” Grey sputtered and paused to take a calming breath, but his vexation wasn’t to be contained. “I abhor the dreadful things and you fiendishly well know it, Annabella.”
Her eyes went round and wide, and though difficult to tell in the glow of the chandelier, her face seemed to pale considerably. Grey’s heart tugged in response to such obvious fear and he recoiled a couple of steps. He needed to find out if what he suspected was true, but such a matter had to be handled with the utmost delicacy or he’d only end up the primary source of the ton’s merriment for months to come.
Seeking distance, he paced the length of the room, stopping at the buffet. Briefly, he considered the decanter of fine aged Madeira and actually lifted his hand to reach for it. He shook his head and turned back to the girl on the couch near his fireplace.
She continued to sit, still as a statue, her skin as white as fine marble, lending to the illusion. Was it fear then, because she knew he’d seen through her sham? He narrowed his eyes. The pinch of the perpetual frown he’d worn from the moment he’d set eyes on his stepsister in front of his home.
He needed to determine what she was up to before he could dispense with her. He drew a deep breath and expelled the air in a long exhale, forcing his muscles to relax. So the chit thought she could play him for a flat. He’d have to put the boot on the other leg, then.
“You’ve been in the country a long time,” he said, crossing the room to stand before her again.
Slowly, she nodded, this time holding her tongue. A look of wariness had crept into her eyes.
“Perhaps you were tired from traveling,” he suggested, raising one eyebrow.
Annabella’s shoulders relaxed and she proffered another feeble smile.
His ruse had worked. He smiled back. “Your mother has begged me to find a suitable match for you.”
She opened her mouth to speak but he forestalled her by holding up his hand.
Warming to his task, Grey began pacing again, presenting his back to her as he thought aloud. “Yes, you’re most certainly of marriageable age. In fact, getting past the point where you should already be wed. I have a business associate I can introduce you to. He’s got some holdings, a title. And not too far beyond his prime.” He whirled around and pinned her with a hard stare as he paced back in her direction. “I think we can have a match made by the end of the Season.”
“Oh, but—”
Abruptly he bent and took Annabella’s chin in his fingers, peering into her face. “You have grown into your large teeth, haven’t you?”
She jerked backward, but having nowhere to go, could only tremble beneath his fingers. He expelled another frustrated breath, dropped his hand, then took a step back. Of all his shortcomings, and indeed he had many, frightening young women had never numbered among his sins. He wasn’t going to start now.
But blast it all, he was tired of the sham. It couldn’t be allowed to continue. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I think we’ve had enough untruth for the evening, don’t you? Where is my stepsister? Has she been harmed?”
Annabella’s lips parted and she drew in a sharp breath. Color returned to her face, two red spots that settled in her cheeks. The hesitation was slight but it was long enough to show her indecision.
“I beg your pardon. I am sitting here in front of you.”
Grey’s head snapped back. Had he been mistaken after all? The little chit’s tongue certainly was as sharp as he recalled his stepsister’s being. She twisted her hands together. No. He hadn’t made any mistake.
“Yes, you are certainly sitting right in front of me. We’ll get to exactly who you are in a moment.” He leaned over her again. “Tell me the whereabouts of my stepsister and whether or not she is in danger.”
“Have you gone cork-brained?” asked Charity from the doorway. “The girl is seated before you.”
Grey stiffened. “Lady Charity, this is not Annabella,” he said without turning.
Though her hands didn’t leave her lap, the girl gathered the fabric of her dress in her fists and worked it between her fingers. She averted her gaze, refusing to look at him, but he caught a glimpse of even white teeth worrying at her lower lip.
“Not Annabella?” Harmony joined her sister, sounding confused. “Why, who else would she be, dear?”
Rage was quick to rise and nearly as quickly squashed. Grey spun about. “Has everyone here forgotten their manners? Who is seeing to the needs of our guests?”
Charity stiffened and stood an inch taller. “The guests at your dinner table are being entertained by Lord Jonathan,” she replied.
“And Lucien has returned with Lord Perceval.” Harmony pressed her fingers to her lips with a titter. “Now, why don’t you explain why you believe we don’t know our own niece?”
Grey opened his mouth to speak. Closed it again. He glanced back at the girl occupying his Grecian couch and barely avoided a tumble into her wide-eyed stare. Then he shifted to glare at the two spinster aunts. They were correct. He sounded like a lunatic. And if they were convinced the young woman seated on his couch was, indeed, Annabella, who the deuces was he to disbelieve them? After all, they had undoubtedly spent much more time in the company of his stepmother and stepsister than he had, particularly of late. Was he wrong then?
The frown pinched his forehead again and he drew a deep breath, concentrating on smoothing the cares from his face. “What I mean to say is this girl is not ready to be seen in polite company if she cannot even remember her manners at the supper table. I’ll not have this family suffer embarrassment from a child’s country ways. You’ll need to see to it she receives proper instruction before she can share a table with prospective suitors.”
“Of course, your grace,” murmured Charity, casting her glance downward.
“No one would dare chance your disapproval. Do you think it has gone unnoticed by the ton?” Unbidden, Annabella’s words drifted into his mind. Thanks to his haste in arranging a supper to show his acceptance of his stepsister, all of London had become aware of her visit. Even after the evening’s disastrous end, Grey dared not show any hesitancy in escorting her around or introducing her to the peerage, lest it be seen as his continued snub.
He heaved a sigh. “In the meantime, see to it she is prepared for an outing to Almack’s, where I expect she will execute proper decorum.”
“Certainly, your grace,” murmured Charity, raising her eyes to connect with his gaze. “The child was merely overwhelmed with the attention tonight.”
Impatient with excuses and beyond ready for the interview to end, Grey waved the chit to her feet and gestured in the direction of the door. With a gasp that might have been relief, she stumbled her way across the floor. The spinster aunts closed ranks around her and ushered her from the room amid tsks and crooning, leaving Grey to wonder if he might yet salvage his dinner party.
&
nbsp; Alone in the room, he considered the events of the evening. He’d been far too eager to correct the wrongs he’d done Regina and her daughter and hadn’t properly thought through making his stepsister’s presence in London known. Now what was he to do?
The sound of a man clearing his throat brought Grey’s head up and he smiled at his old friend, Jon, lounging against the polished wooden archway into the drawing room.
Lord Jonathan pushed himself away from the wall and sauntered into the room, moving directly to the buffet and the Madeira Grey had been considering. Without pause, he poured a measure into a stemmed wine glass, glanced over his shoulder at Grey, and without asking, filled another.
Turning, Jon held out the drink. “Your Uncle Lucien is regaling your guests with the lineage of his dog, Lord Perceval Randolph Nevil Thorpe.”
Grey closed his fingers around the stem of the glass that had been in his family since before his birth and imagined snapping it in place of his uncle’s wretched neck. Would the unseemliness of this cursed evening never end?
Instead of breaking the glass — or Lucien’s neck — Grey sipped the dark sweet liquid and waited for the mild burn of the alcohol to wash his palate.
“Your sister’s a lively one.” Jon sampled his own drink.
“Stepsister,” Grey corrected, and scowled. “Perhaps.”
Jon regarded him with one raised eyebrow. “Perhaps she’s lively or perhaps she’s your stepsister?” He chuckled and sipped again.
Looking over the rim of his glass, Grey studied his lifelong friend. Jonathan’s darker Spanish-influenced complexion and black hair gave him an air of the sinister at times. But just now, his glittering dark brown eyes held mirth.
“I am… unconvinced the chit who showed up on my doorstep is, indeed, my stepsister,” murmured Grey, quite aware that he sounded as insane as his uncle undoubtedly was.
Lord Jon’s eyes lost their mirth and his brow furrowed. “That sounds serious.”
