by Claudia Dain
“I won the wager over that particular word, your grace, if you remember,” Anne said. “Mr. Grey was quite certain that there was no such word.”
“As intersex,” Calbourne said, smiling slyly down at her.
He was rather like one of those imps one read about in children’s stories, the smiling monster who laughingly drags one off into a wood. Calbourne was not going to drag her off anywhere.
“Exactly,” Anne said primly. “It is not a word, and I won the wager. It is not I who shall have to drink enough to make me light-headed.”
“Pity,” Calbourne said, grinning down at her. How did he manage to look so impish when he was roughly the size of an ox?
“But as to how we should like to be indulged,” Anne said, forcefully pulling Amelia into the conversation. Amelia looked willing to be pulled, but ignorant as to the procedure.
Virgins.
Well, one worked with what one had.
“Do you have any thoughts, Lady Amelia? I say it is past time for our whims to be indulged, don’t you agree?”
“I do,” Amelia managed, her voice as soft as white velvet.
Men, as a rule, did not particularly care for white velvet: too difficult to manage.
“In the ways of indulgence,” Iveston said, almost completely avoiding looking at poor Amelia, “as I said, there is food, drink—”
“And the other, intensely popular, widely regarded form of indulgence,” Calbourne interrupted.
Yes, well, she knew quite well where Calbourne’s mind was headed and she thought it entirely horrible of him to try and haul the conversation and their delicate female minds there with him.
Imp.
“Male interests,” Anne pronounced, cutting off Calbourne and not one bit apologetic about it. She had to protect Amelia, didn’t she? And she was not going to risk anything inflammatory being said about her to worry Staverton. He deserved at least that much from her. “Male interests to the last. Men may indulge in food and drink, but a woman has different, more delicate, interests. Does she not, Lady Amelia?”
Really, on the subject of dragging things, she could hardly do more to drag Amelia into an only slightly scandalous conversation with two eligible men. The girl, virgin or not, could at least try to appear interesting.
“I should say so,” Amelia said, her voice rising just a bit. White velvet was left behind for pink damask. Well, it was an improvement.
“Did you have a particular indulgence in mind, Lady Amelia?” Iveston asked most cordially. Anne sent him an approving smile. Calbourne chuckled, which was not at all surprising, considering the man.
“Ruined,” Lady Jordan muttered into her cup of punch.
The lady, Amelia’s aunt and chaperone, after all, had a point. It really was too, too fast a conversation to be . . . indulging in. Anne swallowed a smile at the thought and was rewarded with the sound of Calbourne’s snicker.
Wasn’t it only imps and small children who snickered?
Absolutely. Calbourne had made her point for her.
“Is it not an indulgence to be the singular point of interest for two very pleasing men?” Anne said, looking entirely at Iveston. She was certain Calbourne would take the point. And he did, to judge by his chuckle. “Shall we not call that our particular whim, Lady Amelia?”
“We could,” Amelia said, her blue eyes showing the barest beginnings of a flicker of lively amusement. It was most charming and she looked wonderfully beguiling for the first time that evening. “We probably shall, but shall we not ask for our whim to be perhaps more . . . calculated?”
“A calculated whim?” Calbourne said. “Does that not defy logic?”
“Only a man’s logic,” Anne said quickly, “which we hold not to have the smallest value in this present circumstance.”
“This is turning quite deadly,” Iveston said. “Shall I not draw my sword, which would be highly inconvenient as it is stored in a trunk on the third floor in a poorly placed closet? But I must defend myself against such an accusation. Calbourne, naturally, must defend himself. Defending myself will be quite as far as obligation shall take me.”
“Gallantry in action,” Calbourne muttered good-naturedly.
“That I must defend myself on my birthday must surely be seen as gallantry enough.”
“Why must men ever and always resort to force?” Anne said to Amelia.
“Perhaps because they lack the sense to do otherwise?” Amelia responded immediately, her voice a very pleasing shade of hearty plum-colored wool.
At which point, and for one delicious moment, the men were stricken speechless.
Well done, Amelia!
And for the first time that evening, Amelia Caversham had the full attention of two very marriageable men with the exact qualifications she seemed to want in a marriageable man. It was a moment worth behaving the hero for and Anne smiled fully, enjoying every second of her own, lesser, triumph.
It did not escape her notice that Lord Dutton, his conversation with Sophia edging to a close, had heard the last bit of her somewhat saucy exchange with the lords Calbourne and Iveston and was staring at her with what could only be described as shock.
Anne smiled fully and did not so much as lift her fan to hide it.
How remarkable that, in doing a good turn for Amelia Caversham, she had managed to deliver a dagger thrust to Dutton.
Wasn’t life lovely that way?
Twelve
NATURALLY, being a normal woman with perfectly normal goals, Louisa had dreamed of having the devoted and exclusive attention of a small gathering of men.
Oh, very well, in her dreams, which were rather more frequent than was charitable, she had captured no less than six gentlemen in her web of beauty and wit and they had fallen like so many autumn leaves in the wake of her charm. She now had three men, for Mr. Grey could hardly be deemed a gentleman, avidly clustered about her, demanding her exclusive attention and becoming quite churlish with each other as they did so.
It was not at all a pleasant situation.
In fact, she was coming dangerously close to losing her temper, something which she absolutely must not do. But really, did Blakesley have to be so sarcastically churlish? Did Penrith have to be so unrepentantly seductive? Did Mr. Grey have to be so dangerously savage?
Having to deal with Dutton’s casual dismissal of her would have been a pleasure at the moment. As things stood, she had not a moment’s rest to give to thoughts of Dutton.
“And are you finding your stay in London pleasant?” Louisa asked Mr. Grey. She found that keeping him talking was far preferable to having him stand and stare at her in what could only be described as carnal hunger.
Oh, yes, she had read certain sections, the interesting ones, of that author, Fielding. She knew all about carnal hunger, at least as it was described in books. George Grey was, at this very moment, displaying the exact characteristics of one of the main characters in Fielding’s most salacious novel. It was more attractive in a novel. In person, it was positively frightening.
“I was finding it interesting. As of this afternoon, it became fascinating,” Mr. Grey answered, staring hungrily into her eyes. Most disturbing. She felt almost sick to her stomach.
“Is this your first visit?” she said, raising her chin and quelling her queasiness.
“No, not my first and not my last,” he answered.
He had the most disturbing habit of speaking in abrupt phrases. It made conversation so difficult. That, and the look in his dark brown eyes. At least he was sparing her his dimple. His dimple was extremely difficult to ignore.
“And when will be your last visit?” Blakesley said, looking rather rudely at Mr. Grey.
“When I have what I want,” Mr. Grey answered, looking not at all offended. In fact, Mr. Grey looked almost amused.
Mr. Grey was a very unusual man, that much was certain. Or perhaps he was normal for an American; she could hardly judge as she didn’t know any actual Americans that she was aware of. Unless o
ne counted Sophia Dalby as an American since she had to be half American by any reckoning, American Indian at that. Although, perhaps being an Indian was significantly different than being an American.
Something else she had given no thought to whatsoever in her life to date.
Leave it to Sophia Dalby and her annoying relatives to complicate what should have been a very pleasant evening.
“And what is it you want?” Blakesley said, holding Mr. Grey’s gaze like a clenched fist.
“What every man wants. A woman.”
Upon which, Mr. Grey turned his gaze away from Blakesley’s and stared directly at her.
Oh, dear.
When would dinner be served?
“You’ve come to the right town if you’re looking for a wife,” Penrith said, his smile plainly showing his amusement.
Yes, well, he could afford to be amused; he was not a woman.
“Yes,” Blakesley said, looking at her with a half smile, “there’s not an unmarried woman in Town for the Season who is not eager to be wed. Even to an American. But aren’t there women enough in America?”
“There are women enough everywhere. The right woman is not so easy to find. I thought,” Mr. Grey said, staring down at her, practically ignoring both Penrith and Blakesley.
It was, dare she say it, almost flattering. He did seem quite spell-bound by her. It was completely beyond her usual experience of men and, now that she seemed to be growing accustomed to it, it was not unpleasant.
In fact, she rather thought she liked it.
Oh, dear.
“I agree with you completely, Mr. Grey,” Lord Penrith said, casting his green-eyed gaze down at her. Really, she wasn’t a small woman, but what with being surrounded by three unusually tall men, she was beginning to feel positively hemmed in.
She rather thought she was beginning to like that as well.
“Finding the right woman is merely a question of entering the right room at the right time,” Penrith continued. “How fortunate I was to happen upon Lord Dalby in the park today, and fortunate that he invited me home with him.”
“Seems everyone was at Dalby House this afternoon,” Blakesley muttered.
“Yes, I was so surprised to see you there today,” Louisa said stiffly. “Pity that you left so quickly. Off to White’s, were you? We did wonder.” Really, Blakesley made it sound as if she had gone to Dalby House for the express purpose of meeting men.
Although, there was nothing wrong in that if it happened to be true, was there? Even though it was nothing close to the truth. She had gone to Dalby House for the sole purpose of seeking Sophia Dalby; was it her fault that the salon had wound up being simply awash in attractive, available men?
She really ought to have gone to Sophia earlier in her life. She couldn’t think what nonsense she’d been thinking not to have done so. Sophia truly was a most remarkable woman and she knew absolutely everyone, and that included, naturally, the most remarkable men of the Town.
“Did you?” Blakesley said wryly. “Spared me a thought, did you?”
“If you choose to spend the best part of the day lolling about in White’s,” she snapped back, “I don’t see how I’m to be held responsible for that.”
“I was in White’s and I was not lolling, though why I should not loll as I see fit is no concern of yours.”
Why was it that Blakesley’s eyes, which she had always known somewhere in the back of her mind were blue, scalded her in their blueness now? Certainly Penrith’s rather remarkable green gaze, which was certainly lovely, did not affect her in quite the same way. Nor did Mr. Grey’s, no matter how he leered. No, it was Blakesley, who had always been quite impossible and reliably unpredictable, who made every nerve quiver in both anger and interest.
Blasted man. He was quite the most contrary of her acquaintances. She was not at all certain she would continue to tolerate him.
“Of course, you must spend your hours to please yourself,” she said. “I certainly have no need of you.”
“They’ve been friends long?” Mr. Grey asked Lord Penrith.
“From what I’ve heard,” Penrith answered casually, both of them behaving as though they were not being overheard at all. It was extremely aggravating.
But what wasn’t lately?
Certainly Blakesley couldn’t possibly do more to annoy her than he had done in the last twenty minutes, never mind the fact that he had clearly avoided her for the best part of the day for the purpose of exposing her to public censure by placing her name at the heart of a squalid bet at White’s. It was too awful of him. She couldn’t imagine what he’d been thinking.
Obviously, he hadn’t been thinking at all, which was completely unlike him. Blakesley was the most intelligent man she had yet to meet, though she supposed everyone could stumble into stupidity now and then.
Blakesley had stumbled.
She wasn’t sure she would forgive him, at least not until next week.
“It’s regular for an unmarried woman to befriend an unmarried man?” Mr. Grey asked Penrith.
“Not entirely regular, no,” Penrith answered, his voice so pleasant and so calm that one might have thought he was giving a lecture on the habits of the native population of some backward province. “But, you see, Lady Louisa is not an entirely regular sort of girl.”
“True,” Mr. Grey responded, turning to look at her again. “She is not regular at all.”
“I do not care to be discussed as if I were not present,” she said more sharply than was usually considered proper. Certainly, in the present circumstances, she would be excused by even the most ardent follower of proper form. Not that anyone fitting that description was present at the moment. A rare bit of luck for her and entirely overdue. “In fact, I don’t care to be discussed at all, and certainly not evaluated.”
“Can’t be helped,” Mr. Grey said in that odd, clipped way he had of speaking. It was most jarring. “You’re unforgettable. People are going to remember you and talk about you. Smart thing would be to learn to like it.”
That rendered her speechless for a full five seconds.
Unfortunately, before she could gather her composure, Lord Penrith added, “It is true, Lady Louisa. Certainly you must know that about yourself? You are unique, and that is always worth comment.”
There was simply no answer to that. Was she to admit that no one had ever complimented her before, on any small particular?
Obviously not.
“I wasn’t aware that Lady Louisa was the object of speculation and she certainly is not a topic for gossip,” Blakesley said.
She could have kissed him.
Odd, to think such a thing of Blakesley. She didn’t quite know where the thought had come from. It was the company, certainly. She had never been in such strange company engaging in such peculiar conversation before this instant.
It was very difficult not to lay the blame at Sophia’s feet and, in fact, she saw no reason not to do so.
“Of course not,” Penrith said quickly. “I hardly meant that.”
“Then you must have meant,” Blakesley said in a low and quite serious tone, “that she is, as any beautiful lady would be, mentioned when beauty and wit are discussed, as they always are, because they are so rarely combined in one woman. Of course you meant that Louisa Kirkland is that rare woman.”
The men stared at each other in that particular way that men had of threatening each other without words. She had no idea why they did so when words were such effective weapons, but that was neither here nor there at the moment. Louisa could not help herself. She truly wanted to throw her arms around Blakesley’s neck and kiss his cynical cheek.
Apparently even cynical, sarcastic men could rise to the occasion with the proper motivation. Penrith and George Grey must have provided the proper motivation.
Was it possible that she should lay that at Sophia Dalby’s feet?
It did not seem at all likely.
“Exactly,” Mr. George Grey said, his exp
ression as inscrutable as ever, if one discounted the glint of lust in his eyes, which she was hardly disposed to discount. Really, the man, even for a savage, had no manners whatsoever.
It was not at all to her credit, but certainly convenient, that she was becoming almost inured to his expression as it related to her. He liked to look at her. He clearly found her desirable. Was that so horrible?
Certainly there were worse things.
Louisa felt a small smile of purely feminine satisfaction turn up the corners of her mouth. She really ought not to have smiled, but she did. He might take it as encouragement, and she certainly did not want that.
“I’ve looked,” Mr. Grey said, his dark eyes almost captivating, almost because she was still so very aware of Blakesley at her elbow, vibrating like a harp in simmering anger. “I like what I see. I want you, Louisa Kirkland, and I mean to have you.”
Louisa stopped smiling.
“I beg your pardon?” Louisa said, her voice a mere whisper.
“No, Louisa, he must beg yours,” Blakesley said, facing Mr. Grey fully, his body a shield from Mr. Grey’s gaze.
It was an effective shield. Unfortunately, Mr. Grey was rather tall and rather dark in his black coat with his black hair and his single shining silver earring dangling from his left ear . . . well, let it be said that he was difficult to ignore, no matter who stood in front of him.
“I will not,” Grey said, his expression calm, one might even have said he was amused.
Amused?
“I have seen what I want. What can I do but go after it? She is not spoken for. I have asked Sophia. This woman is free to choose the man she will mate with. I would be that man.”
“That is not quite the way things are done here,” Penrith said, also looking slightly amused.
She was getting more than a little tired of everyone finding this amusing. It might be many things, but not a one of them was amusing. However, even though she was as sure of this as that she was wearing white, she distinctly heard a snicker from somewhere behind her. As it was directly behind her she could not help but think that someone was amused at her expense.
