An Extraordinary Flirtation
Page 19
Absently, Cara pulled up a cornflower. “A friend wouldn’t be plaguing me like this.”
Plaguing her? “But I’ve formed a lasting passion for you!” Paul protested.
“Fiddle." Cara yanked away a vine that was creeping along up the old stone wall. “The only lasting passion you have formed is for Norwood’s property, and I’m not going to give it up.”
Paul was stunned by so sharp a dismissal. “Cara—"
“Not another word!” snapped Cara. “I’m all out of patience with you.” Yes, and she looked it, with her hands on her hips, and on her lovely face a scowl.
She was out of patience? He had been so careful not to rush his fences, had even put aside all his other business to follow her to town. “Your niece isn’t the only member of the family who’s a flirt. She is, don’t deny it! I’ve seen the chit in action. She even tried to flirt with me. Not that I don’t consider your brother entirely to blame.”
Cara could not help remarking the difference between Nicky and the squire in this telling moment. Both were handsome men. Where Paul looked like he very much wished to lay violent hands on her, however, given similar provocation, Nicky would simply walk away. Although he hadn’t walked away, had he, when she’d hit him, and thrown a poker at him, and called him names.
Paul was staring at her. He deserved some explanation. “Zoe flirted with you. I flirted with you. So, probably, did Ianthe. What of it? Have you forgotten that we are all Loversalls?”
Beau was also a Loversall. At least he hadn’t flirted with Paul. Unless provoking a person fell in the same category, perish the thought.
He must regroup. The huntsman must think like a fox, or in this case a female, which was considerably more difficult. “You encouraged me—”
“I did nothing of the sort.” Cara regarded him, an uprooted snapdragon dangling from her hand. “You’re making too much of this, Paul. You never even kissed me.”
Paul knew he hadn’t kissed her. He hadn’t wished to frighten her with the degree of his passion. Now he realized that he should have followed his instincts long ago, thrown Cara over his shoulder and carried her off to his lair, there to have his wicked way with her, whether she wanted it or not, for if he couldn’t overwhelm her senses, he would frighten her into submission. He was not an unskilled lover. She would forgive him after the fait accompli. And if she didn’t forgive him right away, he would keep her prisoner in his turret room, and make love to her until she did. Not that he had a turret room, but he could have one built. “That omission can be remedied,” he said.
The squire stood as still as one of the old garden statues, a disturbing gleam in his hazel eyes, a strange expression on his face. A wolfish expression, perhaps. Or if not a wolf, some other predator with sharp claws and fangs. Perhaps even a preternatural creature that could only be repelled with holy water and a cross. Lacking either of these items, Cara raised the trowel and took a backward step. “No, it can’t.” Daisy dropped down among the snapdragons, looking back and forth between the two of them, perplexed.
Cara held the damned trowel as if it were a weapon. As if a mere woman, no matter how magnificent, could be any match for a man’s strength. Quick as a snake, Paul reached out and caught her arm, tossed aside the trowel, and pulled her into his embrace.
Once Cara had wondered if she wished to kiss Paul. Now she knew that she did not. He, at least, seemed to be enjoying the embrace, judging from the manner in which one hand held her pressed against his body, and the other tangled in her hair. He seemed to be under the impression that she was also enjoying it, for he grasped a handful of her skirt, and murmured unintelligibly against her throat.
Cara stomped down, hard, on his foot. He flinched. She put her palms against his chest and shoved. Still he didn’t release her, but pulled away enough to look down into her face. Cara drew back her fist and punched him in the nose. Paul staggered backward, tripped over Daisy, and fell flat on his back.
Cara’s hands flew to her mouth. Was this some new permutation of the family nature, that she went about assaulting her admirers? She hadn’t meant to harm the squire, merely to discourage him. His nose was bleeding profusely. “Oh, Paul! I’m so sorry!” she cried, and dropped to her knees to dab at his face with her skirts. Not wishing to be left out, Daisy lent her own efforts to the affair.
A soil-smudged skirt, a dog’s damp tongue—Paul pushed them both away, and staggered to his feet. Cara rose also, still attempting to staunch the flow of blood with her skirts, thereby displaying neat pink stockings and white petticoats, a sight Paul might have enjoyed under circumstances other than these. His nose hurt like the devil. He wondered if it was broken.
Ianthe rounded the corner to see Paul Anderley bleeding profusely from a battered nose, and Cara holding her skirts almost above her head. “Angels defend us!” she gasped.
Blasted interruptions! The squire grabbed Cara’s arm and dragged her closer. “I fear I’ve sullied your reputation, my dear Lady Norwood. To be discovered alone together like this—Of course I’ll provide you with the protection of my name.”
“Ballocks!” retorted Cara, and struggled to free herself.
Ianthe wasn’t one to lose her head in a crisis, which was fortunate, in light of the perennial crises indulged in by various members of her family. This crisis, at least, was in part her doing, because she had been so caught up in her own plans that Paul had slipped past her guard. Fortunately, Widdle had confessed.
She glanced back down the pathway. Only seconds left. Ianthe hurried to the squire, and none too gently tweaked his bloody nose. He yelped and released Cara, who moved quickly out of reach.
“What the devil!” moaned Paul.
“You poor, poor man! All that nasty blood! Oh, heaven, I feel faint!” Judging the distance nicely, Ianthe swooned gracefully into his arms.
Paul reacted as would any gentleman, and caught her, although he gazed upon his burden with an expression akin to a fisherman who had unexpectedly been struck by a wet boot. Daisy leapt up, and attempted to lick Ianthe’s face. “No!” said Cara, and pulled the dog away.
Footsteps crunched on the pathway. Baron Fitzrichard and Zoe rounded the corner, trailed by Lord Mannering, who was leaning on the arm of another young man Cara didn’t know. Nor did Daisy recognize him. The dog raced toward them, barking. Fitz quelled her enthusiasm with a single stern glance through his quizzing glass. The setter sat down and looked perplexed. Nick stood stock still, staring. Colin bent down to scratch the setter’s ears.
Fitz turned his quizzing glass on the squire. “Not especially scientific, but effective nonetheless. Should you ever wish to turn professional, Lady Norwood, I would consider it a privilege to have the handling of you in the ring. Yes, Nicky, we know you wish to have Anderley’s guts for grilling, but perhaps he’s already suffered punishment enough. His valet ain’t ever going to save that coat. Although damned if I ain’t tempted to call him out myself for dripping blood on Miss Ianthe!”
Paul scowled and clutched at his burden, who was a great deal heavier than she looked. He could hardly lay her down among the weeds. “Call me out if you will!” he snapped. “But not on Miss Ianthe’s sake. Lady Norwood and I have been discovered in a compromising situation. I have offered her the protection of my good name.”
Lord Mannering knew what he'd done to Lady Norwood, and it had only earned him bruises. All too easy to imagine what misbehavior might have earned the squire his bloody nose. He started forward. Colin took firmer hold of the wriggling dog.
Quickly, Cara moved to the marquess, and grasped his arm. “And I have already told you, Paul, that I have a perfectly good name of my own. It was nothing, Nicky. Remember your back.”
Paul objected to his embrace being referred to in such terms. If he hadn’t been as polished as he’d like, it was because pent-up passion had turned his mind to mush. Then Lady Norwood had taken advantage of his weakened state of mind, and hit him in the nose. “The devil it was nothing!” he said.
Paul looked down at the lady who rested so gracefully in his arms. She opened one apologetic blue eye. Abruptly, he released her. Ianthe staggered. Fitz stepped forward and caught her before she could fall among the snapdragons, and waved his vinaigrette under her nose. “Figured chintz provides an excellent opportunity for the interplay of predominate and subordinate colors. I especially like the orange. A pity about the blood.”
Ianthe pushed away the vinaigrette, and cast a wary glance around. Squire Anderley held the sodden handkerchief to his nose, while Zoe clung to his arm and cooed, and Lord Mannering applied his own handkerchief to the dirt on Lady Norwood’s cheek. The young gentleman was hugging Daisy, and looking bewildered. “Thank you, Baron Fitzrichard. I’ve tried to keep your advice in mind. Shall we adjourn to the house? I believe that must be another new style of tying your cravat. What do you call it, other than superb?”
Fitz made an elegant leg, and offered her his arm. “I hadn’t decided until just this moment, but Squire Anderley has inspired me: I shall call it the Point Non Plus. Now tell me about your cousin. I don’t suppose she’s had sparring lessons. What do you think, Nicky, shall I arrange an exhibition match at the Castle Tavern? After all, l am a member of the Pugilistic Club!”
Chapter 21
To say that these events set the household on its ear might be an exaggeration, for this was an establishment accustomed to the fits and foibles of numerous Loversalls, but there was no little reaction to the blood-spattered condition of the ladies—Barrow in particular had a great deal to say about missed opportunities while she tidied up Lady Norwood—and Squire Anderley’s damaged nose. Various remedies were suggested for his condition, from brown paper stuck under the upper lip to a cold compress on the back of the neck, head tilted forward or leaned back, the bridge of the nose pinched five minutes or ten. In this latter effort, Baron Fitzrichard offered his assistance. The squire refused. When at length all these matters had reached a resolution, various refreshments of an alcoholic nature were served in the drawing room, brandy for the gentlemen, sherry for the ladies, and ratafia for Zoe, who had a sweet tooth, tea being considered of far too prosaic a nature for an occasion such as this.
Lord Mannering and his nephew sat on one of the sofas that flanked the chimney, Ianthe on the other, and Zoe on the confidante. Lady Norwood had removed herself a discreet distance from both the squire and the marquess, and sat in a stuffed chair with Daisy sprawled at her feet. Baron Fitzrichard was pacing the floor, the fireplace poker in his hand, demonstrating for the captive audience his knowledge of swordplay.
He assumed the en garde position, feet at right angles, sword arm extended, left arm raised in a graceful arc. “To seek for a true defense with an untrue weapon is to angle on the earth for fish, and to hunt in the sea for hares. Naturally I wouldn’t wish my great friend Nicky to stand his trial for murder, as surely he must if forced to marry Miss Zoe, although were such an unhappy event to take place, I wonder what I’d wear. Mourning black, of course, for we shall not see the likes of him again. Maybe I’ll create a new tying of my cravat for the occasion and name it the Executeur. Around the neck once, I believe; no indentures or creases, like a noose. Or perhaps the very opposite. One crease coming down from each ear, and a third in a horizontal direction, stretching from one of the side indentures to the other all the way to the ear. Or perhaps two collateral dents, and two horizontal ones, and maybe a large knot. Or perhaps no knot at all, but the two ends joined as a chain link...”
Zoe thunked down her ratafia glass on the table. “There’s no time for this silliness! Beau will be home soon for dinner. Unless you’ve decided I’m not to become unbetrothed, which is fine with me, because even though Cara wouldn’t like it if I married Lord Mannering, I would like to be a marchioness.” She licked the sweet syrup off her lips. “Perhaps I shall be the first Loversall to ever become divorced.”
At mention of the time, everyone glanced at the grandfather clock, save Nick, who looked at Cara.
She steadfastly refused to meet his eye, which made him wonder if perhaps there had been more to the episode in the garden than he knew. Perhaps she did fancy Anderley a little bit. Enough so that the man had considered himself justified in taking liberties. God knew Cara was a splendid woman to take liberties with. The two of them had been living in the country together. Or if not together, side by side.
Cara had said she didn’t want the squire, and that he had wanted only Norwood’s property. She had certainly given every indication of wanting Nick herself. Yes, and he’d been such a gudgeon as to refuse her. Were not his back bound up so tightly that he could hardly move, he would have kicked himself.
If only she would look at him. If only she’d get out of that bloody distant chair and come rub his back. Somehow it seemed Paul Anderley’s fault that she did neither. Nick glowered at that gentleman. One of the numerous remedies for nosebleed having proven efficacious, the squire had finally left off pinching the bridge of his nose.
Damned if he wasn’t jealous! Nick didn’t recall that he’d ever felt this way before, not even over Norwood, but Norwood had been as old as Methuselah, and Cara hadn’t popped him in the nose. At least so far as Nick knew. Now he had a notion of how Cara had felt about his betrothal to Zoe. And that old business with Lucasta Clitheroe. He was surprised she hadn’t shot him. He certainly felt like shooting the squire.
“A single blow cuts off the head, the arm, the head," said Fitz, with a nicely executed lunge. “You’re not paying attention, Nicky. Zoe has suggested that she marry you, and Lady Norwood marry Squire Anderley, and then you can all get divorced. Lady Norwood don’t like the notion. What do you think?”
Lord Mannering thought he would cut out the squire’s liver and fry it if he so much as looked at Lady Norwood, and so he said. Squire Anderley suggested that the marquess might like to try, or so the others assumed he meant; his speech had deteriorated sadly in the past half hour.
Fitz made a pretty step backward. “Is it valorous for a man to go naked against his enemy? Chop and change, turn and return.”
Nick turned his scowl on his friend. “I’m not sure you’re taking this business seriously enough.”
“My dear Nicky, you don’t understand the paradoxes of trial by combat!” Fitz performed a balestra, and a flèche. “Moreover, it is unsportsmanlike to give a man his bastings when someone has already drawn his cork.” He pointed the poker at the squire. “And you can’t sport your canvas when your opponent’s back is already broke. Are you all right, Nicky? You’re looking a little green.”
Scant wonder. Nick wished that he might take off his coat and stretch out on the floor while Cara made slow circular motions with her fingers along his aching spine. “I’m fine. Never better. You said you had a plan. When do you think you might tell us what it is?”
“The eye is deceived by the swift motion of the hand.” After a last practiced flourish, Fitz set the poker on the floor and leaned on it as if it were a cane. “My plan is brilliant in its utter simplicity, if I do say so myself. Zoe is betrothed to Nicky because she was caught with him in a compromising position. To get them unbetrothed, she must simply get caught in a compromising position with someone else.”
Some damsels might have fainted dead away at the shocking notion of being caught in compromising positions twice in as many days. Zoe clapped her hands. “Baron Fitzrichard, you are a genius!” she cried.
Fitz paced around the chamber. “The only question is, by whom? Nicky has already compromised her, and no one would believe it of me.” He studied Paul.
That worthy felt the weight of several gazes, and looked up. “I be dabbed”—sniff—”ib I comprabise da berdicious liddle twid.”
Zoe huffed. Fitz shrugged. “Suit yourself. I just thought that since you seemed wishful of compromising someone, you should be given the chance.”
There came a brief digression while the squire mentioned such terms as “fribbery fripple” and “Bawd Stweet bow” and “shaw-be-bed,” and Fitz in turn chided him for being an old sobersides. Irritably, Zoe reminded the gentlemen of the minutes ticking away on the old grandfather clock.
“That’s it, then.” Fitz turned to Colin. “You’re our only hope.”
Colin gaped at him. “Me? But I just got here!”
“Don’t you want to help your uncle avoid standing his trial for murder?” Fitz grasped the young man by the arm and dragged him toward the fireplace. “Nicky will be grateful to you for it. Maybe he’ll even give you a reward.”
Colin dug in his heels. “Are you bribing me?”
“It’s that or blackmail,” said Fitz. “I doubt your mother would be amused by an account of the greased pig.”
The marquess took his cue. “Poor Maria would take to her bed. On the other hand, I might be inspired to double your allowance. Starting the moment I am again a free man.”
Colin knew his mama worried about him. She worried about everything. He’d come to the conclusion, from conversations with his mates, that worrying was simply what mothers did.