by Muir, L. L.
“Miss Reynolds, I am sure you must have guessed why I am here, and why I insist on speaking with you.”
She side-stepped, behind her father’s chair, then shook her head once, glancing at her father, then back up again. Finally she spoke.
“Of course, Lord Northwick. Would you care to take a turn in the garden?”
“I am at your service.” He bowed and excused himself. “Will you not need a wrap at least?
She smiled and shook her head.
“Be careful with my daughter, Lord Northwick, or I am sure we shall read about it in the papers.”
“I have no doubt, sir. It has been my greatest pleasure making your acquaintance.”
“Mine as well.” The man waved from his seat.
The pretty bird led him to the French doors and opened one, then insisted he precede her.
“Enjoy yourself,” she sang. "I shant be terribly long.” And with that, she shut the door before he could protest.
He paused only long enough to pick up his chin and close his mouth before turning toward the garden. Poor thing. She had been out of society for so long, her manners were rusty. That was all. And a pretty thing, too. It was no wonder Ash had wanted to call upon her. His friend had obviously noticed her beauty when he’d seen her in Hyde Park, but had kept that detail to himself. And so it was no wonder the man wished to be the one to call upon her. But it had been the name Olivia Reynolds that struck North with inspiration. He felt strongly that the trail leading to his future wife would begin at her door.
Finding The Plumiere soon was imperative or he would look a fool for the note he had placed in the personal pages. But how could he resist taunting her when she rose so consistently to the bait? If he flustered her enough, she was destined to make a mistake. Absolutely destined.
He glanced back at the house.
Miss Reynolds was another matter. It was a lucky thing he had not chanced upon her before now. Otherwise he might have been intrigued in an entirely different direction. Could his reaction to her be attributed to the fact he’d been more concerned with mourning his family than ensuring the family name be carried on? Had it been so long since he’d noticed the women around him? Was Miss Reynolds only a sample of what had been dancing beneath his nose for the past two or three years?
Surely not. One look into her dark eyes and he would have paid very, very close attention.
And yet they’d just met. Only a sentence or two between them—not unlike his relationship with The Plumiere herself. Good lord, was he going to fall for every female in sight? Perhaps it hadn’t been his soul stirring to life, but a more primitive instinct.
Perhaps I’ve been lonely long enough.
That was it. He had finally lost his senses. He’d only recently decided to allow a woman into his life; he certainly did not need two. What he did need was to learn The Plumiere’s identity, then he would likely never see Miss Reynolds again. Unless, of course, she might prove helpful in distracting Ashmoore. The man was far too fascinated by North’s bride to be—enough so to make North a bit nervous. So perhaps he might have been wise to have allowed the man to come meet with Miss Reynolds after all. His dark friend would have forgotten all about hunting down another man’s woman.
He would simply arrange for the pair to meet.
***
Livvy hurried back to her father’s side and sat on the floor at his knee. No matter if the Lord God Himself were waiting in the garden, she was not about to miss a moment of her father’s good day.
He beamed down at her while Hopkins lowered her heavy white cloak around her shoulders.
“Take it easy on the man, Livvy. Will you? He seems an awfully decent sort.”
“You are referring to Lord Northwick, Papa?”
“I am. Poor man—tortured man, even after he returned from France.”
“I did not realize you knew him so well.”
“I knew his grandfather.” He waved his hand and frowned. “There was something I wanted to tell you, Livvy. Something important.”
The frown faded, then returned with a vengeance, like a wind dying down, then intensifying in an entirely new direction.
“What?” Her father pulled back from her then, and just that quickly, the good day was gone. The gleam in his eye was gone. The man seated before her was confused, frightened. "Where’s my wife?” He peered closely at her. "You are not my wife.”
“No, my lord. I will see if I can find her, shall I?” She rose and walked stiffly to the garden door.
“She will have a small dog with her. She has lovely dark hair, like yours. Very like yours.”
“I understand.” She paused, hoping her father’s bad spell might have been only momentary this time, but the man in the chair paid her no mind, captivated as he was by the miniature he had pulled from his pocket. He frequently asked about the woman in the painting. She hadn’t the heart to tell him it was only a portrait of his daughter.
Livvy could not indulge in the luxury of grieving for her father’s illness at the moment; the devil was likely melting the snow in her rose garden.
I must act frightened and timid. Even if Northwick was sure she was The Plumiere, she had to create doubt. Life or death. Life or death.
She made her way slowly down the path.
He stood with his back to the house, his hands clutched behind him. Such a tall man. Such wide shoulders. He had barely fit through the door when she had ushered him outside. His boots had brushed her skirts. He had smelled of...well, he had smelled quite different from her father. And even in the wintery garden, he gave off a warmth she could sense as she neared. Perhaps depicting him as the devil was not so far afield.
She stopped, took a silent step backward, then another. When a carriage could have fit nicely between them, she broke the silence.
“Ahem.”
He spun. His eyes assessed her face, her hair. She looked away. Her blush was real enough.
“Please forgive my intrusion this morning, Miss Reynolds. I am sure you can understand why I had no choice but to come.”
The best way to remove all doubt was to open her mouth, so she bit her lips and shrugged. The man was so dastardly handsome face to face she worried she might confess all in a moment of weakness and beg him to follow through on his promises. And of a surety, she was weakened, if not by the handsome man before her, then by her heartache for her papa. One of these days he was going to remember that important thing he planned to tell her. One of these good days.
“Your father seems well apprised of the situation between Mr. Lott and The Scarlet Plumiere.”
She nodded, but frowned. She’d had no idea her father had bothered himself with gossip, though she was pleased he had noticed her—at least that other ‘her.’ Though she could not see it, she apparently resembled her mother so closely, her presence often brought on his confusion. But as The Scarlet Plumiere, she could not disappoint him.
“Come, now. Will you say nothing? Are you so beholden to this woman that you will not give me her name, even if it might be for her own good?”
He does not know I am The Scarlet Plumiere! The relief drained her of all strength, but only for a heartbeat. Her knees held, but only just. She gave him her back lest he notice the surprise on her face. She took a few steps before she could get her brows to return to their original positions, then she turned to face him. She would rather squeal like a little girl and hurry off to share the news with Stella and Hopkins, but that would have to wait. Besides, it was only a matter of time before Lord Ashmoore would give her away.
“I am sorry, my lord, but I am a bit unpracticed in the art of conversing with strange gentlemen. Pray have pity.” And pray give her a moment to stifle her emotions before she forgot the timid role she was playing. If she was unable to do so, she might just tell him what she thought of men who believed they knew what was best for a woman, especially a woman he’d never met. And to be outspoken in his presence? She might as well be waving a red-plumed pen under his nose.<
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He hurried forward. “Forgive me. I am a man possessed these days. Please. Be seated.” He led her to a bench. “I blame your friend completely of course.”
She sat carefully, beautifully—she would have rather kicked his shin bone.
The Scarlet Plumiere was responsible for his rudeness? The man was a dolt. If she did not end their meeting immediately she was likely to bite completely through her tongue! Or perhaps she would earn the blame she’d been assigned and drive him completely mad.
He had turned his back once again, so she stuck out her tongue before she responded.
“My friend? I do not understand, my lord.”
He spun on his heel again. “The Scarlet Plumiere of course. I am possessed with finding her.”
She frowned, trying to appear as though thinking caused her pain.
“Forgive me, but did you not say you believe her own good might be served by your finding her? Or did you mean to say your own good would be served?”
“Touché, Miss Reynolds. You have me there.”
The pear trees were woven into an arbor creating a tunnel of branches through which one could see the far end of the garden. Northwick stood at its entrance, as if tempted to walk the length of it if only he weren’t so tall. Most men would not have that problem.
He reached a tanned hand to the stark branches and snapped off a small twig, then watched it twist between his fingers, seeing, but not seeing. His voice turned reverent.
“Of course I wish to find her for myself, for my own good. I must confess, only to you of course, that I am fairly enthralled by her and I have yet to see her face.”
Dolt or no, she could not help but forgive him. The man was enthralled with her? How terribly romantic. It would come to nothing of course, but he had given a lovely reason to have laid that blame at her feet.
“I only hope that our meeting might prove to be for her good.” He tossed the stick away then moved to the bench and sat down beside her, then looked plaintively into her eyes. “I think she believes herself to be in danger, but I have some rather capable friends who would help until the danger had passed. I would like to boast that I can provide adequate protection for her myself, but surely four are better than one.”
“I am sure every woman in London would love the chance to ask you this, my lord, so I must not waste the opportunity to do so...”
“Ask whatever you will.”
“Do you mean to fulfill the terms of the gentlemen’s lottery?” Surely it was a reasonable question. Of course her life would certainly be easier if he said no, but she found herself praying the opposite.
He scooped up her gloved hands, turned her shoulders toward him. “I do.”
His eyes fell to her lips and remained for heartbeat after heartbeat. She barely breathed. As he exhaled, he seemed to move closer. Then a deep line formed between his brows. His gaze flew to her eyes, then he dropped her hands and jumped to his feet as if her simple white gloves had burst into flame.
She was quite sure it was only her face that had done so. But hopefully any redness could be attributed to the chill in the February air.
“I humbly beg your pardon, my lady. I was but caught up in the moment, thinking of...her.”
Well, that was hardly flattering. Perhaps she would not pardon him after all.
“Please, say you will forgive me.” He stood a safe distance away while he begged.
“I do not know what you mean, sir. For what do you beg forgiveness?” Oh, but playing the simpleton was becoming easier by the moment. And to hear him admit what he had been about to do would sound lovely, she was sure.
He frowned. Apparently he was not going to say it. But even in her disappointment, it was all she could do not to burst out laughing. Not noticing that he’d nearly kissed her seemed to dent his pride.
Too bad she had not leaned toward him. He’d pulled on her hands; it would have seemed a natural thing to do. But too late did she realize what was happening, and yet another chance for a real kiss slipped her by. And this time, by a grown man—and quite possibly the most dashing man she had ever known. Strong chin. Serious brow, and a triangular plane below his cheeks that urged her to smooth her thumbs across them. But she would never have that chance.
It was certain he would never try to kiss her again, not with how he felt about The Scarlet Plumiere. And he would never find out who that was if his friend held his tongue. So again, no kiss.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
North began to pace. He glanced up once, to see if she minded, but Miss Reynolds just smiled and waved for him to continue. He inclined his head, then did just that.
He could easily imagine how The Plumiere must have felt when this lovely creature was about to become the mistreated property of Gordon. The man was a scoundrel and all the ton knew it. Correction, all the men of the ton knew it, and yet no man had come forward to save the lass, leaving the saving to the women.
Well, one woman at least.
Thank goodness Miss Reynolds seemed not to have noticed how close he’d come to kissing her! He blamed it entirely on the fact that she so resembled the original image he had conjured of his future bride. Except for the over-large—
He shook the image from his head.
If she had not possessed dark hair, or been so lovely, he reasoned, he would not have been drawn to her side, drawn to her lips. He had been distracted, but what man would not be?
Yes, what man would not be?
An image flashed in his mind of a large barrel containing both The Plumiere and Miss Reynolds over which he stood, trying to cover the opening with his arms and shoulders so that other gentlemen could not drop in their lots as they passed.
It was only further confirmation that he was, indeed, losing his mind.
Since he had already promised himself to one woman, he had best create a bit of distance between himself and Telford’s daughter. And the best way to do that would be to attach her to the arm of someone else—and not one of his friends. Heaven forbid he should be tortured within his own circles! No. Better to get her back into the ballrooms and allow other gentlemen compete for her. If The Scarlet Plumiere had finished the job she started, and returned the woman to Society, North would not have found himself in such a predicament...leaning over barrels...
He stopped pacing and cleared his throat. “Did not I see you at the Sharpton’s fete the other night?”
“I am afraid not, my lord. I have not been to a fete of any kind since my broken engagement, what with the scandal and all. I hardly need to remind you of the scandal. Honestly, one day I bless the woman who saved me from Lord Gordon, and the next I curse her for it. How I wish I could undo the whole of it, take back the last two years of my life and live it over. Some days I even wonder if it would have been better to have married Lord Gordon. At least I would still be able to shop in public.” She smiled sadly.
Poor woman did not even go shopping? What was the world coming to?
He found himself next to her again, so he placed his hands on his knees and held tight.
“Never believe you would be better off with than man, Miss Reynolds. The Scarlet Plumiere did you a great service that day, believe me. Some of us men wish we would have been clever enough to bring his misdeeds to light and rescued you ourselves.” His voice had dropped dangerously low. What the devil was wrong with him?
In the silence, however, he heard her breathing pick up a pace. Was she affected by his proximity? He did not dare turn his head to see.
Face forward. Face forward.
“I will try to remember that, sir. On sunny shopping days when I am feeling less than charitable.” There was something terribly honest in her statement and an honesty in her tone that demanded his attention. He could not help but turn and look closely. She was such a sweet thing he doubted her capable of strong resentment, but perhaps he was wrong.
“Well, perhaps I can mitigate the injustice done to you. Allow me to take you shopping tomorrow.”
It was
she who jumped to her feet. He, of course, had to follow. He was a gentleman, after all. But now, blast it, they stood facing each other, only a step apart. And how easily he could cover that step.
“Oh no, sir. I could not possibly.” She brought a white glove to her mouth which only served to show the intensity of her blush. It was a clever maneuver, actually; it at least placed a barrier between his lips and hers. She’d known full well how close he had come to kissing her!
But then she bit her lips as if she had just let slip her darkest secret.
Interesting.
“May I ask why not? Surely The Scarlet Plumiere has written nothing incriminating about my past. I do not claim to have read her fiction before my friend became a victim, but surely I would have heard had I been slandered. And I assure you, I have given no reason for my name to be in the paper—well, until recently.”
Her glove fell away and her eyes narrowed. Perhaps she did not care to have her writer-friend referred to as a slanderer.
“But that’s just it. You are Mr. Lott. If I am seen on your arm when every soul in London knows you plan to woo and win the hand of The Scarlet Plumiere… Well, you can see who everyone would assume me to be, can you not? Every gentleman in town would shun me, if they do not already because of my unpleasant situation. And those who do not shun me might wish to murder me for the sins of my rescuer, thinking they are mine.”
Her nostrils flared. It was a small thing, but he had noticed. He looked in her eyes, to discover just how upset she truly was, but just as the door to her thoughts began to open, she stepped back and dropped her eyes. He would have given a hundred pounds for a trellis to have sprung up behind her so she could not run away.
Come back, he urged silently. Face me. Tell me everything! Do your worst!
Dear heavens, baiting Olivia Reynolds was as invigorating as baiting The Plumiere!
She suddenly pulled her cloak tighter around herself with shaking hands and he felt ashamed for even thinking such a thing. He gestured back to the bench, then stepped well out of her way. As long as she did not complain about the cold, he was determined to talk with her as long as possible. He could surely keep his distance.
