A Truly Perfect Gentleman

by Grace Burrowes

  Grey left off admiring the figures. “You are saying I needn’t be delicate.”

  “My husband liked to drink to excess. He dabbled in nitrous and opium and occasionally shared a pipe with me. He teased me into trying his cigars and laughed uproariously when I nearly coughed myself to perdition on the first puff. He read me naughty poetry and had a wicked imagination, which he did not keep to himself in the presence of his wife.”

  This recitation had Grey taking the other wing chair. He could not tell if her ladyship missed this man, judged him for his vices, neither, or both.

  “So, my lord, tell me of these wagers.”

  Grey didn’t want to, but as he’d stomped from the club and endured the knowing smirks of a few passing acquaintances, he’d concluded that he must.

  “Some of the wagers are merely unkind, betting that I will propose to an Arbuckle before King George’s birthday. Others are less innocent.”

  “Welcome to the entertainments of the idle, wealthy male, my lord. For my part, I usually find the sums involved more obscene than the wagers themselves.”

  Excellent point. “The wager gaining the most attention says I’ll make you my mistress before I leave Town, brideless, one assumes, though some are betting that I’ll propose to Miss Sarah Quinlan, and others have put their faith in Lady Antonia Mainwaring’s charms.”

  Those bets made Grey uneasy. The one regarding Lady Canmore infuriated him.

  “You cannot make me your mistress, my lord. That is an office I must choose for myself.” She offered this observation with a baffling touch of humor, not quite smiling, but communicating mirth with her tone of voice.

  “You will forgive me, my lady, if I don’t refine on that point to the idiots at my club. A lady’s good name should be protected at all costs. I’m tempted to resign from the damned organization before sundown. The Arbuckles are in precarious standing, from what I understand, being unpopular and without any offers in their third Season.

  “I cannot speak for Miss Quinlan’s situation,” Grey went on, “though I suspect she is an heiress of some renown. Lady Antonia cannot help that she is tall, any more than I can help that I am tall, and yet, her appearance was referred to unflatteringly in the ledger book.”

  Lady Antidote. Did young women make up sly names for the gentlemen? Grey hoped they did, because such puerile tricks deserved retaliation.

  “You are an earl. Height is manly and unwomanly at the same time.”

  Her calm baffled him. “Why have I spent my youth and adulthood pounding, lecturing, and threatening my brothers into a semblance of gentlemanly conduct, only to come to London and find this, this… vulgarity from men who are supposed to manage the affairs of the realm?”

  The countess smoothed a hand over her skirts. “You are concerned your brothers will learn of these wagers.”

  Well, yes, though Grey hadn’t come to that realization until her ladyship had spoken. “Sycamore hears everything. He’s like a damned house cat, always where he isn’t supposed to be, always listening and plotting secret mischief. Lately, he’s taken up the habit of correspondence, which is enough to give me nightmares. Hawthorne regards Town as Sodom-on-Thames, and I suspect Ash, Oak, or Valerian will come on an inspection tour any week now. They expect better of me.”

  Her ladyship rested her chin on her palm, gazing out the window. “We could have an affair.”

  Grey responded before the import of the words fully registered. “No, we could not—I mean, such an undertaking would doubtless be delightful, but one doesn’t, or rather, I haven’t, or not very—what the hell kind of suggestion is that, Beatitude?”

  Had she been teasing him?

  And when had the adult male cock become an auditory organ? Her outrageous notion sent desire pooling where it wasn’t easily hidden. Grey considered crossing a knee over an ankle, but Lady Canmore had apparently enjoyed a very modern marriage.

  He did not cross his legs, or fidget, or for one instant allow the possibility of an affair to consume his imagination. Instead, it sat like a cat in a shadowed corner of his mind, licking its paws and switching its tail in a knowing fashion.

  “People do,” she went on, brows knit. “Have affairs, especially people who like each other. Ever since you escorted me home from Lady Bellefonte’s ball, I have held you in high regard.”

  This conversation was unlike any Grey had had with anybody, including his horse, including those discussions undertaken with his married brother, Willow, while drinking from the bottom quarter of the decanter.

  “I hold you in utmost esteem, my lady, which is why I will decline to have an affair with you.” Grey did not look at her décolletage, though he esteemed that abundance right along with the rest of her.

  The situation was hilarious, also sad. He was an adult, he desired her madly, respected her tremendously, and she apparently did not find him objectionable. A courtship might have started under those circumstances, but for his lack of funds.

  “No affair, then,” she said, as if choosing a velvet fabric over a muslin. “I suppose that leaves a warm friendship, if we’re to scotch the gossip.”

  “What is a warm friendship?” A warm friendship probably involved such public tortures as being seen with the lady in casual conversation, sitting out a set with her, perhaps taking her driving during the carriage parade.

  Grey hated the carriage parade with a passion that exceeded his loathing for foot rot and dull shearing blades.

  “I don’t envision anything too onerous,” her ladyship replied. “I’ll partner you at whist, you’ll stand up with me for a supper waltz. We might ride out together for an early morning hack and indulge in a bit of flirting where others can admire your wit and my smile. Aunt Freddy will be delighted if she gets wind of these doings, but you mustn’t encourage her daft notions. The idea is that we behave with cordial good cheer toward one another, and in a few weeks, another wager will have caught the attention of the buffoons at your club.”

  To waltz with her, to see her first thing in the day amid the foggy beauty of the bridle paths, to gaze at her across a card table, sending subtle signals regarding the hands in play…

  “How do you advise me to act toward the other ladies?”

  “Oh, much the same. They aren’t widows, though Miss Quinlan is something of an original, so the demands on you will be fewer. Aunt Freddy always says the best response to idle talk is no response at all, and she has weathered many a Season.”

  Grey had probably flung that maxim at his brothers over the years, for which he deserved to be punched by each of them in succession. “I still want to resign from the damned idiot club.”

  Lady Canmore patted his wrist. “You are doomed to be a good example to your peers. Sainthood is a thankless burden, but you might like having me for a friend.”

  The cat in Grey’s mind purred at that thought. He mentally nudged the randy beast through the nearest window. “Will you enjoy having me for a friend?”

  “I believe I shall, though ladies are known for their changeable opinions.”

  “You are teasing me.” Nobody teased the Earl of Casriel. He wasn’t sure he minded it—from her. “How do we embark on our warm friendship?”

  She rose, and Grey came to his feet as well. “Are you attending tonight’s card party?”

  “I am.”

  “Try not to sound so overcome with joy, my lord. I will partner you for the second half of the evening, and we will bicker over farthing points, as friends do.”

  “I’m to bicker with you? A gentleman does not argue with a lady.”

  She smoothed his cravat. “I’m afraid you must.”

  “I refuse to sink to such an ungentlemanly—” He was bickering with her, and she was grinning at him, looking delighted with herself while she petted him. “Very well, a little friendly bickering.”

  She linked arms with him and escorted him to the front door. “If you’d ever like to reconsider, let me know.”

  “Reconsider?”
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br />   She passed him his hat, her expression solemn. “About the affair, of course. I haven’t much experience with such adventures, but one doesn’t forget the basics. I’m sure I could muddle along fairly well once we got past the first few trysts.”

  Minx. What a lucky man her husband had been. “If I ever reconsider, you will be the first to know.” And because she’d been entirely too serene, confident, and charming for the duration of this awkward interview, Grey bent close and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You must promise to do likewise—let me know if something more than a warm friendship would be to your taste.”

  She touched her fingers to the spot he’d kissed. “That is estimable flirting for a man who professes little interest in frivolous undertakings. I account myself impressed.”

  But not tempted, which should have been a relief. He bowed over her hand. “Until this evening, when we will plunder our opponents’ coffers and flirt the evening away.”

  “Plundering sounds delightful. Until this evening, my lord.”

  “Papa, I have told you and told you: I refuse to discuss a baronet, and I certainly won’t settle for a musty old knight. A mere baron won’t do either, and a viscount hardly bears consideration. I want an earl, at least. If the only available marquess were less than forty years of age, I’d consider him, but alas, he’s doddering, and even my ambitions must be bounded by common sense.”

  Charles Quinlan shot his wife a pleading look, but Edna was absorbed with spooning peas onto her plate.

  “Have you settled on a particular earl?” Charles asked his only child. Sarah was nothing if not confident in her schemes. Also beautiful.

  Her beauty bewildered him, for neither he nor his dear wife were particularly attractive people. They looked, he supposed, just as a wealthy ironmonger and his lady ought to look in midlife. Comfortable, well fed, well dressed. Mrs. Quinlan had been handsome as a younger woman, her figure matronly even before she’d become a mother.

  Charles had liked her figure then and liked it still, though he daren’t say as much except in a whisper late at night under private circumstances.

  Sarah, in contrast to her mama, was gorgeous and heard about her various stunning attributes from any callow swain with the ability to form a fatuous rhyme. Her glossy sable hair, cameo-perfect features, and stunning green eyes came together in a symphony of feminine pulchritude. The standard English roses paled in comparison to her, and when she smiled, confirmed bachelors stopped what they were doing and reconsidered their options.

  “Pass the butter,” Sarah snapped. “No lady of refined sensibilities can possibly endure peas without butter, and no, I have not selected a particular earl, not yet.”

  Edna set a plate of butter pats impressed with the letter Q at Sarah’s elbow. “Surely, darling, you recall the list of names we discussed this morning? The Season is half over, and you’ll want to be about your choice.”

  Sarah stabbed a buttery Q with a delicate silver knife, also engraved with the letter Q. “You need not remind me of the date, Mama.”

  Charles set down his utensils. “You will address your mother respectfully, miss, or leave the table until your disposition is equal to the challenge of a civil meal.”

  He rarely rebuked his daughter—of late, he rarely saw her, for that matter—but week by week, Sarah became less the little girl upon whom his sun had risen and more a petulant virago whose whims dictated the mood of the entire household.

  “She meant nothing by it,” Edna murmured, passing over the salt cellar.

  More than Sarah’s moodiness, Edna’s subdued demeanor tore at Charles’s composure. He’d married a quiet, dignified lady who had nonetheless brought good cheer and wifely affection to the union. Edna’s counsel had proven valuable in many regards, though now she seemed reduced to yes-dears and of-course-dears.

  “Do you think it’s easy,” Sarah began, “being paraded before the eligibles night after night? Asking over and over about favorite composers, preferred season of the year, or most delicious flavor of ice? I’m expected to be charming and gracious at all hours, even to plain-faced misses and mere misters who haven’t a spare groat. I bear up despite exhaustion and the strain to my nerves, and you scold me as if I were six years old.” She rose, tossing an imperious look at her parents. “Send a tray up to my room, then, for a meal in such impossible company has lost its appeal.”

  She stormed out, slamming the door and leaving blessed quiet in her wake.

  “I was a plain mister without a spare groat,” Charles observed, taking his daughter’s full plate and exchanging it for his empty one. “She conveniently forgets that.”

  Edna took a sip of her wine. “Our beloved child disappoints me. She never sits out a dance, and her reputation as a beauty grows apace, while her recall of her manners falters.”

  “Perhaps we should leave Town?” Charles loved his sprawling acres up in Cheshire. He hadn’t been born in the countryside, but the increasingly crowded surrounds of his native Manchester had made him appreciate open spaces and clear skies all the more.

  “We cannot blow retreat at this point, sir, else all of these weeks of paying calls, staying up until all hours, and buying out the shops will have been for naught.”

  “We can’t simply try again next year?”

  Edna offered him a wan smile. “Sarah would disown us. The young ladies are all feeling cast down because the Quimbey heir chose a widow, and not even a titled, wealthy, beautiful widow.”

  Charles finished the last of Sarah’s peas. Cook had prepared them in fine butter sauce, which Sarah’s discerning palate had apparently failed to detect, and good food should not go to waste.

  “If I were a young lady of untitled pedigree,” he said, “the notion that a ducal heir could plight his troth with a woman of modest origins would cheer me considerably.”

  Edna drew a fingertip around the rim of her wineglass. “You are not a young lady, and neither am I. They all dreamed of wearing Jonathan Tresham’s tiara, and now they must endure the rest of the Season knowing they’ve been passed over. Sarah considered herself the best candidate to become the next Duchess of Quimbey.”

  “Then Sarah’s wits have gone begging. No ducal family would ally itself with us, even if I had all the money in Manchester.” Quinlan didn’t blame the aristocrats for sticking to their own kind. He certainly preferred the company of men who understood business and weren’t terrified of change.

  Edna set down her drink, and by the light of the candelabra, Charles could see both the girl she’d once been and a wife growing weary of fashionable Society.

  “You underestimate the extent to which these bluebloods need cash, Charles. The land rents have done nothing but drop, enclosures cost a king’s ransom, and the Corsican is no longer keeping our factories humming the livelong day.”

  Charles had taken some military contracts, when he could do so at a handsome profit, but he’d refused the lure of becoming dependent on warfare for his livelihood. His employees had grumbled at the time, but many of them were now the sole support of cousins, parents, and in-laws who’d not been as fortunate.

  “I have more money than we can possibly spend. If it will make Sarah happy, I’ll part with the lot of it, as long as you stay with me.”

  Edna held out her wineglass, and Charles poured her another half serving. “I married a romantic. I think you mean that, about the money.”

  The door was closed—Sarah’s tantrum hadn’t been overheard by the servants—and thus Charles spoke honestly.

  “I have concluded that unless Sarah is happy, you cannot be happy, Edna. If you’re unhappy, I’m unhappy too. London is all well and good, but it’s not for us.”

  He served himself more wine. This was doubtless an expensive French vintage, chosen by an expensive French sommelier. To Charles, the wine was simply a drink to wash down the peas. Ale would have done the job just as well and more enjoyably.

  “Nobody snubs Sarah directly,” Edna said. “She’s too pretty for them to
risk that, and you are too well-to-do. The gentlemen like to be seen with her, and she is trying to be agreeable.”

  “But nobody befriends her, and nobody befriends you.” The sooner Charles could return his family to the north, the better, though if Sarah had her way, she’d probably never set a dainty boot in Cheshire again.

  Edna lifted her glass in a salute. “The titled families will befriend her settlements.”

  The table was laden with costly silver, French porcelain, and Venetian glass. All so much dross, from Charles’s perspective, trappings to be endured until Sarah had what she craved. His greatest treasure sat at his right hand, finishing her dinner and keeping him company.

  “Sarah’s ambition impresses even me,” he said. “She’ll be ridiculed, mocked behind her back, and viewed as a sorry deviation from standards by the next three generations of her own progeny, even as her money funds their foolishness, and yet, she will have a title.”

  Edna patted her lips with her table napkin and sat back. “Perhaps she’ll be able to make the leap, from a cit’s pretty daughter to an aristocrat’s wife. Sarah is determined and shrewd in her way, also beautiful, and her papa is wealthy.”

  Her mother was also determined and shrewd, something even Charles could lose sight of. “You’ve found her a viscount?”

  “Two possible viscounts, and there is an earl…”

  “Younger than forty? Not given to debauchery? Even for a title, I won’t allow my daughter to marry a wastrel.”

  “The Earl of Casriel is not much past thirty, sober, responsible, reasonably good-looking, and in need of coin. He might not be able to make Sarah happy, but he could make her a countess. At the moment, she thinks that’s better than happiness.”

  Sarah would learn otherwise, but this earl would certainly need heirs, and children might do what a title and wealth could not.

  “Mrs. Quinlan, if it wouldn’t be too great an imposition, perhaps you’d like to accompany this plain doddering mister above stairs, where we can discuss Sarah’s situation privately.”

  And discuss this impoverished earl. They’d consider that gentleman until Charles knew how many sheep, acres, poor relations, and teeth he had, as well as all of his vices and his virtues. His lordship would need an abundance of virtues if he was to marry dear, sweet Sarah.