The night was fine, and the air felt cool and refreshing after the stuffy confines of the crowded drawing room. She crossed the terrace, but when she glanced over her shoulder, she could see Jack through the doorway still deep in conversation, and though she turned her back to him and stared out at the darkened gardens, that didn’t distract her thoughts.
Really, she thought in exasperation, that man was the end all. Telling Carrington to school her in British politics as if she knew nothing about it. She knew why he’d done it, of course, and when he came out here, she intended to inform him of just how ineffective his mischievous joke had been.
But she knew it hadn’t been quite as ineffective as she’d have liked to believe. Linnet sighed, slumping forward to lean against the stone railing in front of her. She knew she’d been too close-minded during her season in London, too determined to go home and marry an American, too stubborn in defying her mother to consider the gentlemen who had pursued her here in an objective fashion. But if she’d hoped a second look would make her decision an easy one, that hope was already dashed.
The duke had not impressed her as a very exciting man during her first visit, and Jack’s little joke had served to remind her that the duke was no more exciting this time around.
Still, she thought, looking on the bright side, he also had some fine qualities. He was a handsome man, for one thing. And he was kind, so very kind. He’d treat her well. He’d assured Belinda he found the very strict terms of her marriage settlement perfectly agreeable. His only concerns were that the estates be well maintained and the children taken care of. And he had no doubt Featherstone was wholly to blame for what had occurred in Newport.
All of that ought to have reassured her, and yet now, as she tried to envision spending the next twenty years or so with the duke, as she reminded herself of how much he had to offer her and how good it was of him to want her in spite of her disgrace, she felt anything but reassured.
She moved on to consider Lord Tufton. He was a pleasant man, every bit as amiable as he’d been during their few brief encounters in London, and like Carrington, he had no objection to the marriage settlement she wanted. But though the marquess would no doubt make some girl a fine husband, Linnet knew that girl would not be her. Perhaps it was shallow of her, but she found the cigar-smoking habit quite vile. A polite inquiry on the subject had confirmed for her that Tufton had abandoned his smoking habit before she met him in London and taken it up again once the season had ended.
He could perhaps be persuaded to give up tobacco a second time, but until he did, she could not even consider kissing him, and without kissing him, she couldn’t agree to spend her life with him.
A few weeks ago, the question of a man’s kissing ability would never have been a consideration of his suitability for marriage. Conrath hadn’t kissed her until after she’d accepted his proposal, a fact that paralleled the experience of most girls of her acquaintance. On the other hand, a girl didn’t usually have a devil like Jack Featherstone come striding into her life, bend her backward, and open his mouth over hers as if he owned her. And though Jack’s kiss had offended her sense of propriety, aroused her anger—among other things—and ruined her reputation, she feared that it had also made a man’s kissing ability one of her most crucial considerations for matrimony.
That meant Tufton was out of the question.
She shifted her thoughts to Hansborough. A handsome man, no doubt. Amusing, too, for he’d made her laugh more than once at dinner, and she did have a weakness for men who made her laugh. And he admired her, she could tell, although when she thought of how often his admiring gaze had lowered to her bosom, she knew certain of her qualities evoked more of his admiration than others. But that was to be expected; calling attention to that particular attribute was the entire reason a girl wore a low-cut gown in the first place. And he’d been quite gentlemanly about it, often reaching for his wineglass as the excuse to lower his gaze. Still, every time he had glanced at her chest, all she’d been able to think of was the way Jack had stared at her so openly in Mrs. Dewey’s ballroom—a stare far less discreet. A few weeks ago, she’d found his open scrutiny appalling, and yet now, the pleasant, agreeable warmth of Hansborough’s admiration seemed almost tame by comparison.
She made a sound through her teeth, her exasperation transferring from Jack to herself. That picnic had changed things. She wanted to hate Jack, she ought to hate him. His persistence was aggravating, his arrogance was astonishing, and his continual interference in her life—urging Carrington on being a perfect example—was downright infuriating. And yet, he’d given her blueberry muffins, one of her favorite things. Even as she’d reminded herself such gifts were trivial and could even be deceitful, she also knew their power to charm and captivate.
She reminded herself that he hadn’t asked her to have tea. He’d decided that she would. Granted, he’d promised that wouldn’t happen again, but it was clear he wasn’t above using his superior strength to get his way.
She touched her fingertips to her mouth, remembering how his kiss had seared her lips and her senses. It had also taken all her choices from her, and she’d been wrestling to regain them ever since. If she married him, would he continue to ride roughshod over her wishes? How could she be sure he wouldn’t? He said he wouldn’t let her dominate him, but she had no reason to believe that he wouldn’t dominate her. If they wed, he would have all the legal rights in that regard; the husband always did. What would happen to her plans, her desires, her wishes? Could she trust him to consider those?
The tap of footsteps on the stone behind her had Linnet glancing over her shoulder, and when she saw Jack approaching her, she felt even less inclined to good spirits. Turning away, she gazed out over the moonlit gardens as he paused beside her.
“Beautiful evening,” he commented. “There’s nothing like cool breezes and fresh air to reinvigorate a person.”
She knew what he meant by that remark, and she shot him a glance of reproof. “His Grace is a very nice man.”
“I never said he wasn’t.”
“He’s also very thoughtful. And intelligent. And a perfect gentleman.”
“Indeed. He’s also quite a responsible landlord to his tenants, from what I understand.”
Jack’s bland way of agreeing with her about Carrington had the strange effect of depressing her spirits further. “If I married him, I’d be a duchess.”
“Yes. And if you care about a man’s rank, that would be an important consideration for you.”
“Being a duchess would restore my tarnished reputation,” she said, feeling a bit desperate. “And give me a strong social position. And Carrington’s admiration for me is obvious.”
“Very obvious, I should say. But—” He turned to look at her. “Do you think he would make you happy?”
Since that was the exact question in her own mind, Linnet found it particularly frustrating coming from someone else. “I don’t think he would make me unhappy.”
“A ringing endorsement,” he murmured, making her wince.
“I happen to have a great interest in politics,” she told him, feeling compelled to further justifications. “So this attempt to deter me from the duke by suggesting he discuss the subject with me won’t succeed. Yes, I know you urged him to educate me on the subject.”
“I’m as transparent as glass, it seems. Which makes it all the more stunning that Carrington wasn’t able to see right through me.”
“Because he’s not as devious as you.”
“Quite so,” he agreed at once. “And I never doubted that you might have an interest in politics, Linnet. What I doubted was Carrington’s ability to maintain your interest for a lifetime. I hoped yawning your way through a conversation with him would help you reach the same conclusion.”
“It’s been a long day,” she said with dignity. “The train journey down, settling in, meeting everyone . . . it’s been exhausting. Any girl might be excused a yawn now and again.”
; “Of course,” he agreed gravely. “And once you’ve had a good night’s sleep, Carrington’s pontifications will become much more fascinating to you, I’m sure.”
She scowled. “You are so damnably aggravating.”
“But am I not right?”
“You’re most aggravating when you’re right.”
“As aggravating as I am, at least I won’t ever bore you, Lioness.”
“Chaos is never boring,” she countered. “But it’s difficult to live with. If you want to convince me to marry you instead of Carrington, or any other man, you’ll have to come up with a better reason than excitement.”
“Will I?” He tilted his head, looking at her, and as his dark gaze roamed over her face, she felt a sudden jolt of nervousness. “I’m not sure about that, Linnet,” he said after a moment. “There’s a part of you that likes excitement, perhaps even craves it.”
She opened her mouth to deny what he said, but he moved closer, and her pulses quickened in immediate response, making a denial seem quite hypocritical. “How do you make that out?” she said instead.
“Because if it were not so, you’d never have gone sneaking out to meet Frederick Van Hausen. You’d have insisted he propose to you in your mother’s drawing room in the proper manner, and you’d have stayed in the ballroom.”
“You talk as if I’m willing to throw propriety to the winds. I’ve had eight marriage proposals, I’ll have you know, and Frederick’s was the only one I went sneaking off to hear.”
“Eight? I’m one, of course, and Van Hausen. And you had five in London—Carrington, Sir Roger, Tufton, and Hansborough,” he said, counting on his fingers. “That’s four in London and six altogether.”
She shook her head. “Carrington and Sir Roger both proposed to me, yes. But I met Lord Hansborough for the first time today, and I met Lord Tufton only a few weeks before we departed for home. Three of the men who proposed to me in London could not come.” She paused, looking out over the garden. “Prior engagements. At least . . .” She paused, leaning forward, pretending vast interest in the garden. “That’s what they said.”
“It could be true.”
“It probably wasn’t,” she said, lifting her chin, trying to act as if the reasons didn’t matter, reminding herself she still had choices. “The story about Newport has spread to England now, and I expect those men heard about it. I just hope once I marry, it’ll all die down and be forgotten.”
“It will. Scandals are hard to live down for those involved, but they’re also a bit like trains. Another one always comes along. And what happened between us didn’t happen here, so it will be easier for British society to forget about it. But to return to our discussion, your arithmetic seems faulty. I’ve counted seven proposals, so who proffered the eighth? I only ask,” he added when she hesitated, “because I’ve got enough of your present suitors to defeat before I can win your hand. I should hate to think a former one might pop up and wreck my chances.”
“No fear of that. He’s married now.” She turned. “It was Lord Conrath.”
“Viscount Conrath?” Jack frowned with an effort of memory. “His wife is an American, isn’t she?”
“Yes. Lizzie Hutchison. We both met him when he visited New York two years ago, but I’m the one he pursued first.”
“And when you turned him down, he turned to Lizzie?”
“It wasn’t quite like that. He proposed, I accepted. But then Daddy investigated him, found out how broke he was, and though he didn’t refuse his permission, he put very strict restrictions on the dowry.”
“Ah.” There was such a wealth of meaning in the word, she winced. “And Conrath wasn’t willing to live with that.”
“No. He withdrew his proposal. Two weeks later, he was engaged to Lizzie. Her family is very New Money, you see, so her father wasn’t as adverse as mine to handing over a pile of cash with no questions asked.”
“A man who engaged himself to another girl a fortnight after jilting you wasn’t worth having, Linnet.”
“Oh, I know, and I’m not pining for Conrath.”
“But you did pine for him?” He stirred, moved closer. “Were you in love with him?”
The blunt question took her back. “I don’t . . .” She paused and swallowed hard. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Well, we’re friends now. We have a truce. We’ve broken bread. We told each other our childhood nicknames. I even gave you a new one.” He eased even closer, and though he wasn’t touching her, he was close enough to remind her how carelessly he disregarded propriety. “We have to share confidences now.”
“I knew taking that muffin was a deal with the devil,” she murmured, and moved back a step. Studying him, she considered his question for a moment, then nodded. “All right, I’ll answer you, but first, you have to answer a question of mine.”
“Fair enough. I can’t tell you anything more about Van Hausen, but with that exception, I’ll answer any questions you ask.” He spread his arms wide. “Fire away.”
She hadn’t expected such thorough capitulation, and it took her a moment to think of what to ask first. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Yes. Her name was Lola.”
He stopped, the provoking man.
“Really, Jack, you can’t leave it at that. Where did you meet her? And when? And what was she like?”
“I met her in Paris the summer I was twenty-five.” A slight smile curved his mouth as he spoke, and Linnet felt a sudden, sharp stab of jealousy. It was so startling, and so unexpected, she had to turn away so nothing of it caught his perceptive attention.
“Paris?” she echoed, staring out into the darkness beyond the terrace, striving to sound politely interested and nothing more. “So she was a French girl, then?”
“No, she was American. But she wasn’t a girl. No, Lola was a woman through and through.”
The way he said it made Linnet’s hands clench around the railing in front of her, but even as she reminded herself she had no right to be jealous, she wondered what being a “woman through and through” actually meant, and instead of dissipating, that horrid, stinging jealousy deepened and spread, and she cursed herself for ever agreeing to share confidences with him. It took her several moments to regain her composure enough to look at him again. “Was she an heiress? I might know her.”
“Lola was no heiress. She was a dancer and chorus girl.”
“A chorus girl?” Even as sheltered as she was, she knew men often kept company with such women, and though she’d been schooled all her life that women like that were of low moral character and nothing for a well-bred girl to be jealous of, Linnet proved herself quite impervious to the proper teachings of her girlhood. Even as she told herself she didn’t want to know any more, she couldn’t resist asking another question. “Was she your mistress?”
“God, no. I rarely had the blunt to keep a mistress.” He paused, laughing a little. “She was Denys’s mistress. Viscount Somerton.”
“Your friend, Somerton? One of the men with you at Mrs. Dewey’s ball? You fell in love with your friend’s mistress?”
“It wasn’t intentional,” he said dryly. “And I wasn’t the only one. Pongo was in love with her, too. And Nick. We were all in love with Lola at one time or another—well, I don’t think Stuart ever was, but the rest of us were. Lola,” he added, “was that kind of woman.”
Linnet’s jealousy receded a bit with this list of the woman’s conquests. “Who are Pongo, Nick, and Stuart?”
“My friends. The best friends a man could have. Pongo is the Earl of Hayward, who was also at the Newport ball. Pongo’s a nickname, although don’t ask me how he got it because I honestly don’t remember. None of us do. Nick is Lord Trubridge—this was long before his marriage to Belinda, of course. Stuart is the Duke of Margrave.”
She looked at him, skeptical. “Are you making this up?”
He held up his hand, palm toward her in a gesture of solemnity. “God’s truth. Why
would you think I made it up?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” She laughed, bemused. “How can four men be in love with the same woman and still remain friends?”
“It did muddy the waters for a bit,” he admitted, laughing with her. “Nick and Denys didn’t speak for ages. And, of course, it didn’t help when Pongo shot Nick although he was aiming for Denys. That was over a barmaid, but since it was in retaliation for Lola, it counts, rather. It’s a long story,” he added as if in apology.
“And what about you? Did you quarrel? Did you shoot anyone over this girl?”
“No, thank heaven. I stayed out of the fray, got drunk a great deal, and pined from afar. Denys gave her up after a time and returned to London, Lola went back to America, and we all recovered. Maybe not Denys. He might still be pining although if you asked him, he’d deny it.”
“I envy you,” she murmured. “I mean, I have friends, of course, but a friendship that can withstand what you describe must be an extraordinary one.”
“It is.” He looked at her, and his eyes seemed darker than ever, like a night sky without any stars. “I’d do anything for my friends.” Though his voice was low, he spoke with a strange intensity that made his declaration seem like a shout of defiance. “Anything.”
It startled her, that intensity, and she swallowed hard. “That sounds so unequivocal. We’re friends now, you said.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “We are.”
That simple reply, soft and so sure, did strange things to her. Her tummy dipped, as if she’d just stepped off a cliff. His gaze bored into hers, making her nervous because she didn’t know what he saw there. Her lips were dry, and she licked them, a movement that drew his attention at once. His thick, straight lashes lowered a fraction as his gaze moved to her mouth. She thought of the pagoda, of his arm bending her back, of his mouth taking hers and tasting sherry.
Catch a Falling Heiress: An American Heiress in London Page 19
