A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior

by Suzanne Enoch

  “It’s a poor idea, either way. If you want a husband, marry Montrose. He’ll treat you well. You’re allowed to have a good husband.”

  “Don’t counsel me, Michael. You know I always do what’s correct.”

  “To this point.”

  Theresa jabbed a finger toward the door. “Out. I’m occupied.”

  Michael shoved to his feet again. “Very well. I’ll leave. But I’m going to tell Grandmama that you nearly sent flowers to a man and that you’re setting your cap at Colonel James. You’ll listen to her.”

  With that threat, he left the room again. “Drat,” she muttered, sitting back at the desk.

  That was all she needed, for Grandmama Agnes and Michael to lecture her on proper behavior. She knew what was proper. For once, though, she was tempted to do just one improper thing. And that actually frightened her a little, because she hadn’t been tempted in thirteen years.

  Someone knocked at the door. “Come in,” she called, scowling at the wall opposite. But instead of Grandmama Agnes or Harriet, the butler stepped into the room.

  “Miss Tess, you have a caller.”

  She didn’t have a drive or a walk or a brunch scheduled with anyone this morning, because she always checked her calendar in the evening before bed. “Harriet? She’s early.”

  “A man. He didn’t give his name. In fact, all he did say was that he was here to see Miss Weller, and that he would be out on the drive.”

  “Out on the drive?” she repeated. That was unusual. Generally they wanted to come in. Standing again, she headed for the curtains at the front of the morning room. With a breath she took hold of the edge of the material and pulled it back an inch. A man sat in a chair in the middle of the short, half-moon drive, another fellow standing directly behind him. “Goodness,” she whispered, loosing the curtain and striding for the foyer.

  Bartholomew James had finally come to call on her.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Beware a man who does not declare his interest. A few simple words don’t equate a proposal of marriage, but any gentleman who cannot at least say ‘I am looking about for a wife’ is not likely to ever make a more formal declaration.”

  A LADY’S GUIDE TO PROPER BEHAVIOR

  The front door opened, and Bartholomew held his breath. The odds were fairly even as to whether Tess would emerge or it would be the butler telling him to go away.

  But it was Theresa. She appeared in the doorway and without hesitation descended the shallow front steps. “This is a surprise,” she said, lifting an eyebrow as he let out the breath he’d been holding. “Does Dr. Prentiss know you’re prowling the streets again?”

  He liked the description; “prowling” sounded much better than “completely relying on one’s valet and unable to stand.” Bartholomew shifted. “No. He doesn’t know I’m out of bed,” he said aloud. “I wanted to apologize.”

  “I see. Lackaby, there are fresh-baked biscuits in the kitchen. Please tell Cook you are to have as many as you like.”

  The valet saluted. “I’ll see to it at once.” Before Bartholomew could protest, Lackaby vanished into the house.

  “Damned sapskull,” Bartholomew muttered.

  Her lips twitched. “Ramsey,” she called toward the front door, “I’ll be out in the garden.”

  The butler continued to stand in the doorway. “Shall I fetch Sally?”

  “No need.”

  With a nod and a last suspicious glance at Bartholomew, the butler shut the door. The front drive wasn’t precisely private, but at least she hadn’t refused to see him at all. Because he’d discovered something over the past day; previously he’d found Tess Weller intriguing, amusing, and not a little baffling. After what he’d learned about her yesterday, he also admired her.

  Clearly she blamed herself for the death of her parents, and just as clearly she viewed herself and Society differently because of that. No one viewed their own behavior more seriously than someone who’d broken the rules once and paid for it.

  “Do I have dirt on my face?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why are you staring at me?”

  For a moment he contemplated telling her that he knew about her parents and that he thought he had the key now to her behavior. That hardly seemed fair, though, given that she knew only the barest details of what had happened to him and he’d refused to tell her more. “You’re pretty,” he finally stated, his voice more brusque than he liked, especially since he’d told her he was there to apologize.

  “So are you.” Sending him a quick smile, Tess stepped around to the back of the chair.

  Bartholomew scowled. “Don’t push me about.”

  “I’ve sent Lackaby away, and I don’t want to stand here on the drive to be gawped at by everyone passing by.”

  With a lurch the chair rolled into motion, bumping across the cobblestone drive. The pace jolted his knee, but he clenched his jaw and kept his silence. The entire morning had literally been torture, both with the pain of descending the stairs at James House and with someone he couldn’t see pushing him from behind and dictating where and how far he was able to go.

  Once they reached the small Weller House garden, Theresa rolled him beneath a wide-reaching oak tree and then sat on the small stone bench facing him. Folding her hands together in her lap, she gazed at him expectantly. “Well?” she prompted after a moment.

  “Well, what?”

  “Apologize to me. It’s why you came here, I believe.”

  “I did apologize.”

  “No, you didn’t. You said you wanted to apologize. You haven’t actually done it yet.”

  With anyone but her, he would have changed his mind right then, stated that fact and wheeled himself the devil home to James House. As usual, however, where Theresa appeared everything else went by the wayside. “I apologize, then, for being sullen and cross.”

  “I accept your apology.”

  “Thank you.”

  She tilted her head. “And I apologize to you, for being nosy.”

  And there he sat, guilty of the same damned thing. “I don’t—”

  “In fact, I was considering sending you a bouquet of flowers to apologize,” she continued, smiling brightly. “You may have saved me from scandal.”

  Bartholomew looked at her. “What game are you playing, Theresa?” he finally asked.

  “Well, if I haven’t already made my intentions apparent to you, then I apologize again,” she said primly. “I want to better our acquaintance, Tolly.”

  He cleared his throat. “I haven’t precisely gone about kissing random women over the past months,” he ventured slowly, fighting against the very strong feeling that he didn’t deserve to be having this conversation, or to be in this circumstance. But her lovely gray-green eyes held his, and he continued. “I would like to better our acquaintance, as well.”

  Her shoulders lowered. “Thank goodness. Because I couldn’t sleep at all last night, wondering how I would announce that I wish to court you.” Abruptly she blanched. “If you were thinking about courtship. Which I don’t expect, of course, because we only met a short time ago, but—”

  “Do you always talk this much?”

  Theresa blinked. “I hadn’t really considered. I’m very good at idle conversation, though.”

  Surreptitiously Bartholomew wriggled his toes. It hurt, so he wasn’t dreaming. That didn’t rule out possible delirium, but any fever-induced fantasies would have featured the two of them naked—not her offhandedly declaring that she perhaps wanted to court him. “I have to ask, what in the world makes you think of me as marriageable? I’m something of a wreck.”

  “I find it rather troubling myself,” she returned, “because I’ve never even considered setting my cap at anyone. It’s not at all proper, really. But I find you very…compelling, and I would like to understand why that is.”

  This wasn’t supposed to be happening. His luck had failed him months ago, along with any hope for happiness. And yet she
seemed as interested in him as he was in her. He cleared his throat. “I have to agree that I would seem to be an ill choice for a courtship, Theresa. Especially for you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “That said,” he pressed, wondering when heavenly lightning was going to strike him dead for having the audacity to want her, “I am here. Calling on you. You seem more tolerable than most other chits of my acquaintance. Especially now.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, I suppose.” She smiled.

  A return grin touched his own mouth; he couldn’t help it. “You really should run, Theresa.”

  She tilted her head at him. “Are your attentions not honorable, then?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Grabbing the edge of the bench with his fingers, he hauled himself closer to her. “Kiss me again, and perhaps that will help.”

  “Not so fast. I’ve been asking you to call on me for weeks, and this is the first time you’ve done so.”

  “You can’t count the days where I was unconscious.”

  “Even so.”

  “Well, I’m here now,” Bartholomew reminded her. “I can’t escort you to a dance, and I don’t enjoy gabbing about the weather, but I’m here.”

  She sent him a thoughtful glance. “All of my other suitors say they want to become better acquainted with me. To see if we would be compatible. They invite me to the theater, take me for drives, and stand about smiling while I shop for silly little knickknacks I don’t even need. And of course they want to chat as much as possible, and dance.” She gazed at him, her expression an alluring mix of amusement, excitement, and genuine nervousness. “What do you offer?”

  He’d thought himself finished with risk and adventure—and with life in general. Fate and Theresa Weller clearly had other plans for him. “I can sit with you in a damned carriage,” he finally said, his voice lowering as he realized how little he did have to offer at the moment.

  “Then I think you should take me driving tomorrow,” she said.

  He nodded. Pragmatically, the only way she would realize they would never suit was to spend more time with him. He might even be able to make himself believe this was for her benefit, if he could make his heart stop pounding so hard for a damned minute.

  That afternoon, Theresa sat forward on the curricle’s leather-covered seat to wave at Mariana Hopkins. “That’s a very nice color on Mariana, don’t you think?”

  Alexander, the Marquis of Montrose, glanced across the edge of Green Park. “Yes, lovely.” He expertly tooled them around a stopped barouche. “Parliament doesn’t meet until two o’clock tomorrow. Allow me to take you out to brunch. Eleven o’clock, say.”

  “I’m engaged tomorrow,” she returned, her stomach turning butterflies as she thought for the hundredth time about the look in Bartholomew’s eyes when he’d appeared on her front drive only a few short hours ago.

  “Beg off. You know you prefer spending time with me.”

  “Don’t ask me to be rude, Alexander.”

  “Who is it, then? Not Lionel.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not playing this game. Talk about something else, or please take me home.”

  He subsided, but continued sending her sideways glances. “If it was Henning or Daltrey you would tell me, because they’re nothing but your silly friends. It’s someone you fancy, isn’t it? Now you have to tell me.”

  “It’s a family to-do,” she stated, crossing the fingers of the hand he couldn’t see. “I simply don’t like the way you demand to know every detail of my every day.”

  “Consider me chastised, then,” the marquis said easily. “But don’t expect me to stop being jealous. Not when you’ve received at least nine other offers of marriage.”

  “All of which I’ve turned down.”

  “You turned me down, as well. And yet here we are.”

  “Tess!”

  Starting, Theresa glanced up the pathway to see Lord and Lady Gardner riding toward her. “Stephen, Amelia,” she exclaimed, smiling. “I daresay I underestimated you, my lord, if you’ve managed to get my cousin on horseback.”

  Amelia grinned back at her, eyes dancing. “Stephen has amazing powers of persuasion.”

  “Clearly.”

  Stephen chuckled. “She didn’t resist at all. By the way, your patient has allowed me to purchase him a wheeled chair. He actually went outside this morning.”

  Theresa’s cheeks warmed. She knew quite well where Tolly had gone this morning. “That’s excellent,” she said aloud. “I’m so glad his leg is healing.”

  “Do you think your brother would make me a loan of his barouche?” the viscount continued. “Tolly mentioned wishing to take some air when his leg improves.”

  So Bartholomew hadn’t informed his family about their odd arrangement, either. “I’m certain he will. I’ll mention it to him.”

  After another few minutes of conversation, Lord and Lady Gardner rode off through the park. On the outside, Lord Gardner and his younger brother looked very similar. On the inside, Stephen was a true gentleman in every sense, whereas Bartholomew was rough as the sea on a stormy day. Stormy weather had never much appealed to her—until now.

  When she realized she was daydreaming again, Theresa shook herself and looked at Alexander. He was gazing at her, an unreadable expression on his face. “What is it?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Nothing. Let’s look at the bonnets for sale on Bond Street, shall we?” With a cluck he sent the team forward again.

  She flashed him another smile, rather relieved that he’d decided against another argument over her various other appointments. Of all her suitors, Montrose was the most persistent, and the one she took most seriously. If Tolly did mean to take her driving, and if he was serious about seeing her, she would eventually have to tell Alexander that her affections had been engaged elsewhere.

  A low uneasiness stirred through her. Montrose was definitely the safer, more reliable proposition. But she’d had better than two years to accept his suit, and five years since she’d had her debut, and she remained unmarried. Was Bartholomew then a new path, or a last lesson for herself on the perils of impropriety?

  By the time she returned home, she was more than ready for an hour or two of solitude before she had to dress for an evening at the theater with Michael and Grandmama Agnes. As soon as she stepped through the front door, however, she noticed her grandmother standing at the top of the stairs.

  “Come see me, Tess,” she said, and vanished toward the back of the house.

  With a frown Theresa followed the family’s matriarch into feline-occupied territory. She found her grandmother in the large upstairs sitting room that had been converted into a cat heaven. Dodging the strands of yarn hanging from floor to ceiling and the faux mice made of ox hide and the tufts of tied-together feathers on the floor, she made her way to the back of the room. Grandmama Agnes sat on the settee beneath the window. On her lap, on either side of her, and curling up on her feet, were cats.

  “What is it, Grandmama?”

  “I was quite the minx when I was your age, you know,” Lady Weller said, stroking the gray and black cat, Pebbles, that sat on her lap.

  “Yes, I know. I’ve heard your stories many times.”

  “I’ve never told you the tale of how I once sent flowers to a man, have I?”

  Theresa blinked. “No, you haven’t.”

  Agnes set Pebbles aside. “That is because I would never do such a scandalous thing!” she exclaimed. “There is a difference between skirting rules and putting musket balls through them. And while I’m pleased you’re finally…stretching your boundaries, I do not—”

  “But Grandm—”

  “You will not do such a thing, either, Theresa Catherine. And stomping your feet and pouting won’t do you any good.”

  “I do not pout or stomp my feet, Grandmama.” Not since she’d been ten. And she would never do so again, no matter the provocation. “And I told Michael I’d decided against it.
It was only a passing whimsy. I don’t know why the two of you think I’ve suddenly gone mad.”

  The older woman’s expression softened. “Perhaps it was hope,” she said so quietly Tess wasn’t certain she heard it correctly.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I know you don’t throw tantrums, dearest,” Agnes said more clearly. “It was only an expression.”

  “There’s no need for sending flowers any longer, anyway. He came by, and I spoke to him in person. We’re going driving tomorrow.” She had no intention of saying any more than that. Not until or unless she and Tolly came to an understanding or she came to her senses again. Above everything else, her family deserved proper, correct behavior from her. A cold wave of guilt washed over her. She shouldn’t be embarking on this trail. But seeing Tolly again…

  “You’re going driving with Colonel James?”

  Theresa took a deep breath. “Yes. He asked to use our barouche, though, because Gardner doesn’t have one.”

  “Very well. He seems an interesting man, Tess. More so than most of the milksop bucks chasing after you. Is he romantic?”

  Romantic. He certainly kissed like it, but that was another topic she meant to avoid. “I don’t think romance has been much on his mind,” she said instead.

  “That’s understandable. But if he’s asked you to go driving, he must have some thought of romance.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Agnes nodded. “Only one more question from your old grandmama, then. Are you ready for the trouble being seen with him could stir? There are other men more admired than he is, and they won’t like you showing him favor. And there are the rumors, as well, that these Thuggee don’t exist and that he lost his command because he is utterly incompetent. Or worse, a coward.”

  The image of him lying in bed while Dr. Prentiss dug into his leg made even the sound of that accusation ridiculous. “He is neither of those things.”