by Claudia Dain
It did not escape Louisa’s notice that obeying Sophia, a woman who truly had no reason to help her, might possibly be the worst course of action she would ever undertake. She had, to be brutally honest, never been particularly nice to Sophia. In fact, it could be argued that she had occasionally behaved in a rather nasty fashion to her. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that Sophia, rumored to be rather ruthless when she chose, might choose this exact moment to be ruthless with Louisa.
Dutton was worth the risk. Oh, and the pearls as well. She couldn’t let herself forget that this was all about getting back her pearls. That Dutton was in possession of them was glorious serendipity.
“I shall do whatever you think best,” Louisa said, leaning forward in her own chair.
Sophia nodded and smiled in approval.
Whatever alarm Louisa felt upon receipt of that rather calculating smile, she suppressed. Ruthlessly. Dutton, and her pearls, were worth it.
“Perfect,” Sophia said softly. “We shall get on splendidly. I do so enjoy it when my dictates are followed to the letter.”
“Dictates?” Louisa said, her previously repressed alarm baying vigorously.
Sophia shrugged delicately. “Mandates? Counsel? Instruction? Choose the word that best pleases you. As long as we are in agreement as to what shall happen. I shall instruct and you shall obey.”
Louisa was almost entirely certain that she had never obeyed anyone in her life. If not for the compelling nature of Lord Dutton and her compelling need to get possession of her pearls, she would have refused Sophia baldly. But she could not. She needed her pearls. She wanted Dutton. Or perhaps it was that she wanted her pearls and she needed Dutton. She didn’t suppose it mattered as long as she gained possession of both.
“In the pursuit of my pearls,” Louisa qualified.
“Naturally,” Sophia said, her dark eyes gleaming. “A woman simply must have her pearls. And the man who took them from her must be punished.”
“Punished? Oh, no. Not at all necessary,” Louisa said abruptly. “I’m quite certain that my father is entirely to blame for selling my pearls. Lord Dutton can hardly be held at fault for buying them.”
“Really?” Sophia said softly. “I’m equally certain that he could have purchased someone else’s pearls with little effort. It seems entirely too convenient to me that he would practically steal your pearls from off your very elegant neck and proceed to make a public spectacle of presenting them to another woman. Though the other woman happens to have been my daughter, it wasn’t very chivalrous of him, was it? I can state without hesitation that Caroline in no way expressed an interest in either Lord Dutton or any pearls he might happen to have found himself in possession of. The entire pearl spectacle as it involved Caroline and Lord Dutton was entirely Lord Dutton’s idea.”
Louisa hadn’t considered that. Had Dutton made it a particular point to acquire her pearls? Had he done it to entice her? Or had he done it to insult her? And why had he done it with Lady Caroline at the most interesting assemblie of the Season?
With Dutton, either course was as likely. He was flagrantly adept at both enticement and insult. It made for a most exhausting romance, particularly as she was becoming more and more certain that she was the only person present in the romance. Dutton, inexplicably, did not seem to have succumbed to her obvious appeal and she had, to be brutally honest, given him ample opportunity to succumb.
She was, she was becoming increasingly certain, hopelessly in love with the Marquis of Dutton, and he was not, despite her best efforts, falling hopelessly in love with her.
It was inexplicable. Yet, it appeared to be true.
It was on the heels of that rather unpleasant thought that the door to the white salon opened and Fredericks entered with her cup.
“The gentlemen have returned, Lady Dalby,” Fredericks said in an undertone. “With guests. Will you admit them?”
Sophia turned her dark gaze to Fredericks and said serenely, “With guests? Male, I presume.” To which Fredericks nodded with entirely more amusement than was proper in a proper butler. He was an American; Louisa supposed that must answer for his coarse familiarity. “By all means. Admit them,” Sophia said, her eyes on Louisa. Louisa resisted the urge to shift her weight on the fine white silk damask of her chair. “I think this will be most instructive, Lady Louisa. Do try and enjoy yourself fully.”
It was a most odd remark to make. Louisa did not like it in the least.
And it was on the heels of that rather unpleasant thought that the door to the white salon opened and a parade of men of the most singular attractiveness walked into the room. It was quite impossible to form a coherent thought of any sort for quite some time after that. It was only at Sophia’s amused cough that she managed to stand and curtsey her greeting at the gentlemen presented. They were introduced to her in the proper fashion and she supposed she made the proper replies; she had been the recipient of a more than passable education, after all, and one expected certain rules of etiquette and deportment to rise to the fore in uncomfortable circumstances, and meeting the men of Sophia’s family certainly qualified as an uncomfortable circumstance.
Louisa sat back down upon Sophia’s white silk damask, arranged her skirts, and tried not to stare.
No exercises in deportment could have been sufficient to the task.
First, of course, should have been Sophia’s son, the rather remarkable Earl of Dalby. Wavy dark brown hair, liquid dark brown eyes, an expression of smoldering amusement tracing every line of his chiseled features; for all that, he was a boy compared to the man that was Dutton, she forcefully reminded herself. It was unexpected in the extreme that the Earl of Dalby was almost completely eclipsed by the man introduced as Sophia’s brother.
He was a complete shock as he was clearly one of those American Indians one heard so much about. He certainly looked the part. Tall, bronzed, his dark hair falling straight into roughly cut chunks about his harshly chiseled face. His dark eyes were mere slits of speculation and he looked at her rather more closely than she was accustomed to.
She was dismayed to realize that she was not revolted by it.
He was introduced as Mr. John Grey, though it became immediately clear that everyone in the room addressed him as John. Simply John. Impossible, really, as she couldn’t go about addressing him by his given name; though she didn’t suppose she would have any need to address him at all. She rather hoped not. Mr. John Grey looked entirely capable of cutting her heart out of her ribs without so much as a hitch in his breathing.
John Grey was the father of three sons, hardly more than boys in age, really, but again, like Lord Dalby, very forbidding despite their physical youth. George was likely her own age of twenty, and possessed of dark good looks and good height. In all, she was forced to admit, despite his primitive origins, he did rather look the part of a Greek statue. A dark, tousled Greek statue with the most startling dimple in his left cheek, which she knew existed because of his absolute cheek in smiling at her. Really. Hardly appropriate behavior but one entirely to be expected of an Indian, if one could believe the romantic and highly suspect rumors of them.
She was beginning to believe that the rumors might have more merit than she had at first supposed.
John the Younger was the middle son, and a more aristocratic face would be difficult to imagine. Of course, like the others, he was unfashionably dark of complexion, but it did not at all diminish his elegant athleticism. He looked to be about eighteen. Another mere boy when compared to her Dutton.
The youngest of Sophia’s surprising nephews was introduced as Matthew, and he was surprisingly stunning in appearance. Young, yes, too young, but with the cleanest features and the bluest eyes set beneath the most classic brows; he looked what he was, that is, an Indian and savage. But therein lay the problem; savagery had never before looked quite so compelling.
It was completely inappropriate for her to take any note at all of these savages when there were two very likely
titled gentlemen in the room as well, besides Lord Dalby. They were the guests, apparently, and Sophia seemed quite as surprised and perhaps slightly delighted that they’d joined her son’s party.
“One would think you’d ridden to the hunt, Markham. Just look at what treasures you’ve brought home for me to enjoy,” Sophia said, smiling at the Lords Penrith and Ruan, the treasures.
“Now, Mother,” Dalby, who clearly also answered to Markham, said, “don’t frighten them with your particularly odd strain of humor. I told them they’d be quite welcome.”
“And so they are, darling,” Sophia said. “As to being frightened . . . have I frightened you, Lord Ruan?”
“I’m forced to admit you have not, Lady Dalby,” Lord Ruan said in a low voice.
“Then I shall just have to try harder, Lord Ruan, shan’t I?” Sophia answered softly. “Now that you’ve found your way to my door, I daresay I shall have ample opportunity.”
“Let us be precise, Lady Dalby,” Ruan said silkily. “I have found my way past your door, past all your defenses, which, I find I am also forced to say, were rather more meager than I had expected.”
“You had expectations,” Sophia said, raising her black Wedgwood cup to her lips. “And they were not met.” The contrast to her pale skin was particularly flattering. “Have I just been insulted, Lord Ruan? Shall it be pistols at dawn?”
“If we must duel,” Ruan answered softly, his voice a deep rumble of amusement, “I have a sword of which I am particularly fond.”
Upon which Sophia let her dark-eyed gaze travel the long length of Ruan’s form before saying, “I don’t doubt it, Lord Ruan.”
Louisa could feel herself blush. This is what came from taking chocolate with a former courtesan; the conversation could not help but be coarse and rife with innuendo. Louisa looked at the Marquis of Ruan: a startlingly tall man with black hair and piercing green eyes in a face that had seen a good share of life. He looked only slightly older than Sophia, and what was more, he looked entirely and inappropriately at ease with the conversation.
“’Tis obvious you’ve met,” Dalby said in an undertone that could be heard by the entire room.
“Only recently, at the Duke of Hyde’s assemblie where Caroline became so delightfully engaged,” Sophia said, turning her gaze from Ruan to Penrith. “But you, Lord Penrith, you are an old friend. Tell me, how is your darling mother? Are she and your sister still traveling through Greece?”
“Yes, Lady Dalby,” Lord Penrith answered, “and enjoying it immensely according to mother’s last letter. They were hoping to visit Lord and Lady Elgin.”
“How lovely that will be,” Sophia said. “By all accounts Mary, Lady Elgin, is the most pleasant of women. I do envy them their ability to travel so widely upon the world.”
“And what keeps you from traveling, Mother?” Dalby said from his elegant slouch upon the milk blue damask sofa.
“Why, my children, darling,” she answered with a soft smile. “A mother simply should not leave her children at such a sensitive time in their lives as this.”
“Sensitive? Sensitive in what regard?” Dalby asked.
“She means to see you married,” Penrith said, his golden green eyes sparkling. Lord Penrith, whom Louisa had never had occasion to meet, was a remarkable looking man. Everyone, absolutely everyone, commented upon it.
He was tall, as fashion preferred, and golden, which fashion perhaps did not prefer but which compelled everyone who saw him to immediately discount fashion. His hair was longish and dark blond. His skin was dark gold. His brows were straight and cleanly drawn over almond-shaped eyes. His nose was shaped with poetic beauty and his brow was noble and intelligent.
But, of course, he could not truly compare to Dutton.
“Married?” Sophia said to Penrith’s remark. “Without question, Markham. You must marry, but not yet. You are far too young to marry.”
“Thank God we agree on that,” Dalby muttered.
“I am quite certain I shall embarrass you by saying that I should be much surprised if we did not agree on absolutely everything,” Sophia said. “Take, for example, Lady Louisa.”
All eyes, male eyes, turned to look at Louisa. Louisa did not find it in the least agreeable. She lowered her eyes to her cup of chocolate and gazed into its brown depths as if it were the most fascinating object on three continents. Poise at its best, actually, as there was nothing even remotely interesting about a half-drunk cup of chocolate.
“I’ll take her,” a male voice said. Louisa’s head jerked up to connect the voice to the man. It was one of the Indians, the one called George. Impertinence at its most extreme.
“Now, George,” Sophia said on a trill of laughter, “you know quite well that things are done differently here in England.”
“Too bad,” George practically grunted.
Well, really.
“I’m afraid that I must be off,” Louisa said, laying aside her cup on an elegant little table and rising to her feet. All the men in the room rose with her. She was beginning to feel like a player in a particularly bad farce.
“Now look what you’ve done, George,” Sophia said from her poised perch on the damask sofa. “You’ve frightened Lady Louisa off. And we were having such a productive conversation.”
Louisa sank back down to her seat. The men sank with her. Frightened off? Hardly. And not by a mere primitive who didn’t appear to have access to a good tailor. His coat was a positive lump of fabric that hung from his shoulders to his hips. Distasteful. Sophia really should see her relatives better turned out before she let them loose upon London.
He needed a good shave as well. She could actually see the dark shadow of his beard growing out of his jaw. Savage. Her stomach was quite turned by the sight. She could feel it flipping around even now.
And someone really should tell Mr. George Grey that staring was completely reprehensible. She might just tell him herself.
Someday.
His looking so completely savage was just the tiniest bit off-putting.
“Oh, good,” Sophia said softly. “You’ve decided to stay. How tolerant of you, Lady Louisa. Having no brothers, you cannot image how unruly a house with men in it can become.”
“Yes,” Louisa said awkwardly, trying desperately to keep her gaze from George and his rather too snug leather breeches buttoned above a pair of soft leather boots. She was only marginally successful. He had spectacular legs and they were compellingly long.
“She’s not married,” George said, staring at her with his dark, savage eyes, his gaze entirely too direct and his manner disturbingly bold.
“No,” Sophia said with a smile. “Not at present.”
Not at present? Sophia made it sound as though she could be picked up and purchased as a matrimonial parcel with just a nod to the clerk. Indeed.
“I have no immediate plans to marry,” Louisa said.
“I applaud you, Lady Louisa,” Lord Penrith said, his voice a husky murmur.
People talked about that as well, about his voice and what it could do to a woman if she happened to find herself talking to him behind a hedge or a screen. Of course, the women who did talk about it were soon shuffled out of the best houses in London. A respectable woman did not go about talking to attractive gentlemen behind the furniture.
“I should say so,” Lord Dalby echoed. “It’s a rare woman, one of exceptional virtue, who does not make marriage a priority.”
“Markham,” Sophia said liltingly to her son, “please do try not to appear an idiot. Virtue has very little to do with anything, particularly where women are involved, and most decidedly where women are involved with men.”
Lord Ruan laughed under his breath. John, Sophia’s startling brother, made some noise, but she couldn’t be certain if he wasn’t simply coughing.
“I beg your pardon,” Dalby, or rather Markham, said to his mother.
“As well you should,” Sophia said. “Of course Lady Louisa plans to marry; she is simply wis
e enough not to rush precipitously into anything as permanent and as costly as a marriage.”
“Costly?” Ruan asked.
He was a most compelling man and spoke in that distinctive drawl which showed the world that he had absolutely nothing to do with his time but enjoy it. While Penrith’s green eyes were hazy and golden, much like a cat’s, Ruan’s eyes were like emerald blades, piercing and hard and entirely too knowing. It was a strange relief to find that he could spare his gaze for little beyond Sophia.
Louisa was not in the habit of pleasantly sharing the attention of any man with any woman, but in this case she was more than a little relieved. Lord Ruan looked entirely too experienced and was entirely too unrepentant of that fact.
That Sophia Dalby could manage him wasn’t even a question worth asking.
“But of course,” Sophia answered Ruan, looking at him rather more intently than was commonly considered proper. Not that Louisa was surprised by that; Sophia made it something of a routine to do things that weren’t considered proper. Which was the entire reason for coming to her for aid in obtaining both Dutton and her pearls, now that she thought about it. “You of all people, Lord Ruan, must know that when a man and a woman join there are inevitable costs.”
“Inevitable?” Ruan asked in a manner that was just this side of seductive. Louisa felt a slight tingle of feminine awareness in her toes. She jammed her toes into the tips of her shoes and silently insisted that her toes behave.
“Definitely,” Sophia said with a small smile.
“The marriage contracts, of course,” Dalby said.
“Of course,” Sophia said sweetly, looking at her son. “What else?”
“What else, indeed,” John said, giving his sister a most peculiar look.
John Grey was even more intimidating a man when giving out peculiar looks. Sophia’s wild brother looked quite capable of killing a man for his snuff box. Of course, when a man had a sister who had been a courtesan, he might find that more than the usual number of occasions arose for killing a man. Odd, but she hadn’t heard any rumors of men being killed in unusual number while Sophia had been, what must honestly be termed, in trade. It was entirely likely that Mr. Grey had remained in America and, since she had never heard of him, continued to do so.
