Thank God for family. They stood by him, even if a witty, forthright chit of impeccable manners chose not to. “Very clear,” he said aloud. “Thank you.”
“Do you have any idea how you’ll fight these accusations?”
“Not yet.” A heavily breathing Lackaby arrived at the foot of the stairs with his wheeled chair and three footmen. Lackaby, who’d served in India as the personal valet to the future Duke of Wellington.
The valet swallowed, eyeing him. “You’ve got a bit of a…a look about you today, Colonel.”
“Do I? I was just thinking that you and I need to have a little chat.” As he sank into the chair, he shot another look at Stephen. “You’re going to a party tonight, are you not?”
“We were. Under the—”
“I’d like to go with you.”
Montrose walked up to Theresa before she even had time to relinquish her wrap and procure a dance card. “Tess, you put the sun to shame,” he drawled, bending over her hand with an exaggerated bow.
Whether the action was meant to inform her that all was well and friendly in the ballroom or if it was a mere flirtation, she found it immensely reassuring. All day she’d been nervous about the Clement ball. What would she do when someone made a comment disparaging Tolly? She couldn’t laugh and go along with the defamations, because that was wrong. If she said something in his defense, though…Oh, what a blasted rat’s nest.
“I suppose I must grant you the waltz in exchange for your compliment,” she said aloud, shaking herself and forcing a smile.
“I think that’s fair enough,” Montrose agreed. His gaze took in the crowded room. “Any word from your fr—”
“Oh, is that Harriet?” Theresa interrupted. “That lavender is so lovely on her, don’t you think?” She waved. “Harriet!”
For forty-three minutes, it worked. By paying close attention, she deflected at least nine references by her friends that might possibly have been about Tolly. But then, in the middle of stopping another rumor by speculating over whether the wind might pick up tomorrow and give a chance for kite flying, she glanced toward the main ballroom doors.
Oh, my.
He’d worn his uniform. Evidently Colonel Bartholomew James didn’t mean to sit quietly at home and wait to be forgotten. As she watched, he rose from his chair and stood to shake hands with the Duke of Sommerset. Chair waiting behind him or not, he looked…magnificent. A lion among sheep.
Her heart twisted in her chest. He could be hers. The striking man in that striking red coat wanted to be with her, wanted her, and the only thing keeping them apart was those rumors, and her. Her and a set of rules she’d made for herself because of something that had happened thirteen years ago.
Tolly half turned in her direction, and Theresa quickly took a step behind the Marquis of Montrose. If Tolly met her gaze everyone would know she was a coward. And at the moment that seemed even more significant than accusations of impropriety. It all meant the same thing, though—she couldn’t be anywhere near him.
“Shall we take a stroll?” Alexander asked, his light blue eyes flicking a gaze between her and Colonel James.
“Oh, yes.” She grabbed onto his arm. “That would be splendid.”
In no time they were out of the ballroom and down the hallway to the quiet and thankfully deserted library. How was she supposed to avoid conversation about Tolly now? He was just a few doors away, and so…imposing. People might avoid insulting him to his face if they had any sense of self-preservation at all, but the chatter behind his back would increase tenfold.
“If you continue pacing like that, you’ll wear a hole into the breakfast room ceiling,” Alexander noted.
She hadn’t even realized she was pacing. “Apologies,” she said, stopping in front of him. “I seem to be a bit distracted tonight.”
Montrose tilted her chin up with his fingers. “Perhaps I can help.” Then he leaned down and kissed her. Smooth, warm, and skilled, it caught her completely off guard. Slowly he straightened again, looking down at her. “Any better?” he asked.
“I—stop that.”
“Marry me, Tess. Say yes, and you’ll be a marchioness in a fortnight.”
Theresa blinked. It was such a simple request. Three words. A few weeks ago, that kiss and those words might have been enough to convince her. Suddenly everything seemed plainly, painfully clear. She wasn’t going to marry Alexander Rable and be the Marchioness of Montrose. She wanted to be with Bartholomew James.
And Montrose still stood there, gazing at her. Expecting an answer, this time. “As I said, Alexander,” she began, “I’m not ready to marry.” Her voice shook, but not because of the handsome man standing before her. Rather, she felt all shivery inside because of the man just down the hallway.
“Mmm-hmm. You’re not ready to marry, or you’re not ready to marry me?”
“Clearly they both mean the same thing, Alexander.”
“No, they don’t. I have no qualms over protecting your sensibilities if, in the end, doing so is to my benefit. Holding your hand while you decide to screw up your courage enough to approach him again, however, is something else entirely.”
“Alexa—”
“You have one week to overcome your infatuation, Tess. If you choose not to, I will take myself elsewhere. It shouldn’t be all that difficult for you, considering you don’t even want to be seen looking at him.” He inclined his head. “I’ll see you for the waltz.”
With that he left the library.
Theresa looked at the closed door. Of all the mean, manipulative things to say. Except that it was plainly the truth. After a moment, realizing that her hands were clenched, she strode to the window and back again. She knew she had a reputation for propriety. She knew that everyone else knew it. But this—
Just when had people begun using her…her squeamishness against her? Had other people aside from Montrose made plans counting on the fact that she could be relied upon to act in a certain way? That was simply too much.
“Bloody hell,” she blurted, then clapped both hands over her mouth. The bad curse. She never used the bad curse.
And yet, nothing happened.
Lightning didn’t streak through the closed window to strike her. No one ran into the room and began calling her a hoyden. She certainly felt precisely the same, except…better.
“Bloody hell,” she repeated, allowing the words to roll along her tongue. It felt oddly satisfying. After all, she was quite fond of a man who had very bad manners, no sense of convention, and who was at the beginning of a very unpleasant fight for his reputation. And another man had just all but called her a coward and delivered her an ultimatum.
“Bloody hell,” she said for a third time, beginning to understand why some men were so fond of the curse. It was magnificent, really.
The liquor tantalus caught her eye. How many times had she heard the stuff called liquid courage? Well, she could certainly use a bit of that.
Tentatively she tugged on the latch holding up the piece of wood that locked the bottles in place. It fell open with no effort at all. Well, that smacked of providence. Sending a look over her shoulder, heady excitement coursing through her, she picked up one of the pretty decanters, pulled out the stopper, and poured a small portion of the amber liquid into a waiting glass. Still no punishment rained from the heavens or through the closed door to stop her.
Theresa lifted the glass. Then, holding her breath, she took a long, deep swallow.
Fire poured down her throat, raw and burning up into her nostrils, making her eyes water and setting her gagging. “Bloody hell,” she choked. Then, pinching her nose shut, she finished off the glass. Liquid courage, indeed.
Chapter Fourteen
“A lady may occasionally imbibe a glass of Madeira or ratafia. A lady who drinks whiskey or any of the stronger spirits, even with little finger delicately poised in the air, is no lady at all. She may as well light up a cigar.”
A LADY’S GUIDE TO PROPER BEHAVIOR
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nbsp; The moment Lackaby rolled him into the ballroom, Bartholomew’s gaze went to the large, chatty group standing to one side of the dance floor.
Of course she’d be at its center. Theresa Weller was the sun around which all lesser planets circled. But then the sun had hidden behind the damned moon that was the Marquis of Montrose the moment she’d glimpsed him and his very obvious chair. Then she’d fled the blasted room with the man.
“No one’s so much as glancing in our direction,” Stephen commented under his breath.
“Yes, they are.”
“Well, they aren’t approaching. Why the devil did you have to wear that damned uniform?”
“It made me the man I am today.”
Stephen leaned over him, something which Bartholomew had swiftly realized he disliked. “Do not send your sarcasm my way, Tolly. I am on your side, if you’ll recall.”
“I know that,” Bartholomew retorted, keeping his voice low. “If you’ll recall, I informed you that standing by me would not be pleasant.”
“At least Sommerset shook your hand. The man has a great deal of influence. At the least, everyone’s afraid to cross him. To his face. But unless he stands beside you all evening, th—”
“Which he has no reason to do,” Bartholomew cut in. The duke had already made it more than clear that his support wouldn’t for the most part be public.
There was no reason for it to be otherwise. And in truth, tonight he wouldn’t have cared if everyone present turned his or her back on him—save one. She, however, had already fled the room.
Lackaby leaned over his other shoulder. “Whatever you’re looking for here, Colonel, you ain’t going to find allies. Never seen so many noses pointed in the air.”
“I’m not looking for anything,” Bartholomew returned. “I’m reminding them that I’m here.”
“Well. That seems to be working, then.”
It was, at that. The East India Company could claim that India was safe as kittens, but he had a rather obvious limp. They could call him incompetent, which he could almost sense coming, but they couldn’t deny that he’d been wounded. In India.
The music for the evening’s first dance began. Montrose reappeared to take a petite, dark-haired chit by the arm and lead her forward. Other than noting that nearly everyone seemed to want to dance tonight, Bartholomew didn’t pay them any mind.
Of much more interest was the lad, Lord Biskell’s second son, as he recalled, standing just to the side and looking from Theresa’s grandmother to the dance floor as though he’d lost something. Bartholomew could guess what it was. Tess hadn’t reappeared from wherever she’d gone off to with Montrose. A few moments later Biskell’s son gave the room at large an uncertain smile and wandered off in the direction of the refreshment table.
Theresa Weller would not leave a dance partner standing without excuse or explanation. “Lackaby.”
The valet stood behind him, tapping his toes to the rhythm of the quadrille. “Aye, Colonel?”
“Push me over there.” He indicated the door on one side of the room through which Tess and Montrose had vanished.
“How do I get one of them sugared orange peels?”
“You don’t. Push.”
With a jolt he and the chair moved. He saw the looks and the swift glances away. He’d seen them since he’d entered the room. He didn’t care; tonight was only about making his presence known. In the next day or two he would begin pushing back.
“Stop here.”
The chair stopped. “Well, this seems much nicer over here,” the valet observed, sarcasm thick in his tone.
Bartholomew held up one hand. “Cane.”
“Colonel, you keep walking on the damned leg and it’s likely to give up and fall off.”
“Cane.”
The valet blew out his breath. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With exaggerated care Lackaby handed over the stick of scorched ash with its very sharp rapier hidden inside. The valet’s warning was a good one; whatever Bartholomew wanted to accomplish, he had to weigh whether he wished to do it with one leg, or two.
Any sense of self-preservation, though, paled in comparison with his desire to find out where Tess had got to. Whether she wanted him to find her or not.
He pushed upright, hiding his wince as the movement pulled at healing bone and muscle. Leaning on his cane much more heavily than he liked, Bartholomew left the ballroom behind. The half dozen doors to his right and to his left were all open, with the exception of one.
Despite his inclination not to trust his instincts any longer, he headed down the hallway toward the closed door. A pair of servants caught up and passed him, continuing on toward the stairs that would be at the rear of the house.
Sending a quick glance up and down the now-empty hallway, he gripped the door latch and pushed. The door opened silently before him. He moved quietly, not certain what to expect or even completely convinced she would be there.
“Bloody hell,” he heard from across the room in Tess’s distinctive voice.
He knew in an instant that something was awry. Theresa stood near one of the bookcases that lined the left wall. In her hand was a glass. As he watched, she took a delicate sip.
“Bloody hell,” she said again, making a face.
Christ. As swiftly as he could, Bartholomew shut the door behind him. “Theresa.”
Visibly jumping, she faced him. “Vodka is a vile drink,” she said. “I prefer whiskey.”
“Then why are you drinking vodka?”
“I had to try it, you know. Otherwise, how could I judge?”
Something had definitely happened. Reaching behind him with his free hand, Bartholomew threw the bolt to lock the door. Whatever was amiss, he certainly knew enough about Theresa Weller to realize she would be mortified if anyone caught sight of her now.
“Tess,” he said slowly, keeping his voice low and level, “what’s troubling you?” What he wanted to do was grab her and shake her and ask if Montrose had done something to harm her. If he had, the marquis was a dead man.
She blew out her lips. “Do you know what I am?” she asked.
Several answers came to mind, among them lovely and inebriated. “What are you?” he asked aloud.
“I am two things.” She lifted two fingers at him, looked at the V she’d made, then giggled and covered the gesture with her other hand. The glass fell to the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice it. “That was naughty, wasn’t it?”
“Only if you meant it to be. Which two things are you?”
“Oh, yes. I almost forgot. I am predictable, and I am a coward.”
He cleared his throat. “I must say, I don’t find you predictable at all.”
Theresa clapped once, then jabbed a single finger in his direction. “No, you don’t,” she exclaimed. “I am not predictable around you. It’s your fault.”
“Hmm. Don’t expect me to apologize for that.”
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
“And I know you’re not a coward, Theresa.”
“But I am. And everyone knows it. Alex, Alexander the Great, gave me a week to decide whether to marry him or not. And he knows what I’ll say, because he knows I can’t be around you.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Because of the scandal.”
The scandal. He’d actually forgotten about that for a moment, the way he seemed to forget everything dark when she was about. And he wanted so badly to kiss her that he was almost willing to pretend that nothing outside that room even existed. Almost. “I should be going, then.”
“No! You should stay.” Theresa hurried forward.
Before he could put out a hand to stop her, Tess hit him in the chest. The cane slid out from beneath his grip, and he went down on his backside. Theresa fell with him, landing across his chest with a thud that knocked the air from his lungs.
For a dozen heartbeats he lay there, trying to recover his breath and assess whether his leg remained attached to the rest of him. Petite though she was, Theresa
packed a punch. “Tess?” he rasped, putting a hand across her back.
Abruptly she lifted her head, looking down at him from mere inches away. Disheveled blond hair framed her face, her gray-green eyes as surprised as his likely were. “Don’t seduce me,” she ordered, her gaze lowering to his mouth.
He wanted to. If she hadn’t been drunk and upset, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. “I’m not.”
“Oh.” Slowly, almost as though she was being dragged forward against her will, she sank down along his body again and kissed him.
She tasted rather strongly of spirits, but Bartholomew didn’t give a damn about that. Her mouth molded against his, warm and soft and perfect. He drew his arms around her hip and shoulder, holding her close against him. Desire twitched into his bones.
Fingers began plucking at his neat, military-style cravat, pulling at the knot there. With a silent curse and a very clear understanding that he would very likely regret the next few moments for the rest of his life, Bartholomew broke from her mouth.
“Anywhere but here, Tess,” he said softly. “And any time but now.” He shifted to put his hands over hers, between them, to stop her from undressing him.
“But this is what you want,” she breathed, frowning.
“Yes, it is. But not so you’ll hate me for it tomorrow.”
She scowled down at him. “You’ll miss your chance, Bartholomew. Tonight I am cursing and drinking. I’m almost certain I won’t do either one tomorrow. And that means I won’t do this, either.” She lowered her mouth onto his again.
He sank into the kiss for a moment, then pushed her shoulders, lifting her off him. “Then I suppose I will do without.”
“But—”
“You won’t want me tomorrow, Tess. You made that clear. And I’d prefer that you simply avoid me rather than hate me.”
“I hate you a little bit at this very moment.”
A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior Page 18
