Stafford shrugged. “I’ve looked into all that. She’s not insane or anything, only a bit rough in manners. She grew up in foreign parts, so what do you expect? I can always have someone else raise the children if she’s a hassle, and stow her in Bedlam. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“What a detestable fellow you are.”
“Detestable? I call it practical. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do as much.”
“I wouldn’t do as much,” said Warren. “I’d never put a woman in Bedlam.”
Stafford gave him an arch look. “That’s rich, coming from you. Everyone whispers about your wicked and unnatural proclivities. Word is, you drove one of Madame Cecilia’s girls mad.”
“Drove her mad with pleasure.” It was a well-passed-about myth that he had broken Mary Branham’s mind, but it wasn’t true. The poor lass had been broken to begin with. He’d only set her up in a cottage in Cornwall so she wouldn’t have to sell her body anymore.
Stafford took another gulp of port. The man was considered handsome but wouldn’t be much longer, if he persisted in heavy drink. “Be sensible, Warren,” he said. “Daft or not, Baxter’s ward has money. Why marry a poor woman when you can marry a rich one? The Maitland property’s not much, but there’s enough in the bank to keep a gentleman in cards, wine, and women for the rest of his life.”
Stafford deserved to be heartily beaten. Daily. It was only his title and influence that allowed him to move in polite circles. And if Baxter had invited him here, he must—for some unfathomable reason—approve of Stafford as a suitor for his ward.
“Perhaps I’ll marry her,” said Warren. “Steal her from your clutches.”
Stafford laughed. Warren’s reluctance to marry was a well-known fact.
“So when’s your wedding to this Lady Maitland?” Warren asked. “I’ll want to be looking about for an appropriate gift.” Like a pistol for her to blow her brains out.
“We’ll wed as soon as I can get the woman to accept me. She’s not crazy to marry but I can romance her, at least until she’s under my thumb.”
“And then?”
“And then I’ll do what I like, won’t I? And with a great deal more gold in the bank.”
It was a bleak picture, this Baroness Maitland languishing with an arse like Stafford for a husband, especially when she didn’t want to marry in the first place. He hoped she was a strong woman with a resilient heart.
Warren stood to excuse himself, having endured enough of Stafford for one evening. “I wish you a pleasant night. And good hunting with Baxter’s chit.”
“Good hunting indeed.” Stafford raised his glass, rings glittering as bright as his ingratiating smile. No wonder the man needed money. He wore more jewels than a king’s whore.
Warren left the card room, feeling unnaturally tense around the shoulders, as if his coat was too tight. He decided to check on his sister, although he knew the stalwart Mrs. Everly was looking after her. Friends greeted him as he walked toward the ballroom. No matter his private exploits, he was generally liked and respected by the haute ton, and maintained a faultless public image for Minette’s sake, and for his Parliamentary career.
As expected, his sociable little sister was surrounded by friends, having a fine time. He watched her for a while, then skirted the shadows of the ballroom, lest some ambitious young woman come fluttering about to beg for a dance. He paused by a line of tall potted plants, thinking how grand it would be to hide in them and jump out at tottering dowagers, if only there were tottering dowagers around.
But there was only a young woman in a black mourning gown, peering out from behind a cluster of yellow-green leaves. He stopped and looked again.
Yes, my goodness. This could only be Lady Maitland, that daft and tragic figure of Minette and Stafford’s tales. She had disappeared behind her leafy fortress, but not before he noted thick, glossy auburn hair and a mouth made to be kissed.
He was always up for a lark, and this promised to be a good one. He looked around to be sure he was not observed, then set off with a jaunty sense of purpose to flush out this exotic bird.
Chapter Two: Unwilling
Josephine had hoped hiding behind the potted plants would protect her from sociable advances. She’d only agreed to come down to please Lady Baxter, who believed Josephine’s parents watched over her from heaven, and would not want her sitting alone in her rooms. Josephine had not agreed to change out of her black gown. Black handily repelled lighthearted people and lighthearted conversation. She didn’t wear it to mourn, and honestly, she didn’t believe her parents could be looking at her from anywhere but the deepest depths of hell.
Unfortunately, the black gown and odious plants had both failed her, for a tall, smiling gentleman was headed her way. He was exceedingly blond, even viewed through the black netting of her fan. When he drew closer, she caught a glimpse of piercingly bright blue eyes.
What was she to do? She could continue to hide and hope he didn’t find her, or step out and make herself known, but that might require speaking to this stranger, and Josephine hadn’t any desire to do that. She dithered so long that he came upon her unexpectedly, so she startled and then stumbled. She was obliged to grasp at large, waxy leaves to keep her feet.
He reached to steady her too. “Why are you hiding?” he asked. “Shall I rescue you?” His hands closed on her waist, a strong, warm pressure that startled her nearly as much as his unwelcome appearance.
“I don’t need rescuing,” she said.
But he had been joking. A corner of his mouth turned up in a lazy smile. He was a charmer, she could see—and therefore not to be trusted. The one thing Josephine had learned in her wretched life of traveling was to read people, particularly when they might pose a threat. His direct gaze unsettled her so much she looked away, but not before she noted strong, noble features and a chiseled jaw. Though his hair and eyes were light, his complexion glowed golden, as if health and contentment spilled from his very soul.
“I’m perfectly fine now,” she said. “You may release me.”
“Certainly I’ll release you, if you’re sure you won’t tumble out of the trees again. Or the brambles, or bushes, or whatever these are.”
What a mad person. They were obviously house plants, and she hadn’t tumbled out of them, only lost her footing when he snuck up on her unawares. Her throat worked at the awkwardness of the conversation. “I am the Earl of Warren,” he continued, when she failed to speak. “But we haven’t yet been formally introduced to one another, so I wouldn’t advise you to acknowledge my presence.”
She raised her fan before her face and fluttered it. He was joking again, and giving her that expectant look, like he expected her to sally back. Perhaps he waited for her to say her name. She wouldn’t give it to him, not here behind the plants, as she flushed rather furiously.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
“No. I would rather not.”
“We can dance back here if you like, where no one can see us.”
She became aware of the indelicacy of their situation, that she was not within view of others, and therefore alone with this man. She scooted from behind the plants to take a more proper and public position upon a chair against the ballroom’s back wall.
“What a capital idea, Lady Maitland. Let’s escape this overgrown jungle and have a bit of sun. You are Lady Maitland, aren’t you? The esteemed baroness?”
Josephine could scarcely breathe. He had fetched a chair, setting it directly beside hers. When he sat, his right arm contacted her shoulder for a heartbeat of a second before he straightened. He felt very warm and…hard.
She did not utter a word, didn’t even look in his direction. She stared instead at the swirl of the dance floor, her gaze going in and out of focus on a rainbow of pastel dresses and dark evening coats.
“My dear lady,” he said at last, “it is customary in England to reply during conversations, perhaps even introduce topics yourself.”
She brought
her great black fan up between them as if it were some layer of defense. “I do not care to make conversation. And I was not raised in England.”
“But you are here now, and shall be for the foreseeable future, I gather.”
She hated him for his jovial courtesy and his smooth, steady voice. Fear and anxiety roiled inside her, an uncontrollable reaction to his closeness. She knew little of English gentlemen or their manners, except that they could not always be trusted. This one in particular seemed very threatening. Light, but dark. Humorous, but with a rather pointed edge. Her parents had warned her English society was peopled by vipers who poisoned one’s soul. She stole a glance at Lord Warren, wondering if he was a poisonous sort of person.
As for him, he made an exhaustive study of her mourning dress. Or did he ogle her bosom? She held the fan so it shielded her chest.
“I would like to express my sincerest condolences to you, Lady Maitland, on the loss of your parents.” He dragged his gaze back to her face. “It must have been a terrible blow to lose both at once. When my parents died, I hardly knew how to go on afterward. I was only ten.”
It was hard to picture this cheerful man as a sad, orphaned child. It hurt her to even imagine it. “I’m sorry for you, if you loved them,” she blurted out. “But I never liked my parents, and I don’t miss them now that they’re gone.” There, that had shocked him into silence.
But after a moment he bent closer and asked, “Why didn’t you like them?”
Josephine was embarrassed to have revealed so much, especially to this stranger. “My family matters are none of your concern.”
“Perhaps not, but I’m curious. Did they beat you? Starve you? Deprive you of love?”
She needn’t answer him, but some expectation in his tone had her searching for the words. “They…they put me in danger. They were very…selfish.”
“They dragged you all over the place, didn’t they? I suppose the reality was not as romantic as one might think.”
There was no great sympathy or tenderness in his voice. He spoke matter-of-factly and yet she felt her throat close up with emotion, that someone might understand. “They didn’t like England,” she forced out, fluttering her fan again. One sentence. One fact that had ruined her entire miserable life.
“What places did you go?” Lord Warren asked.
“Wild, horrible places in India and Africa,” she answered in a strained voice. “Hot places with insects and mud, and sickness, and violence, and people who distrusted us.”
“Your parents liked these places?”
Josephine shrugged. She would never understand what had drawn her parents to their travels, or what had fed their desire to live outside civilized society.
“And now you are back in England after all,” he said, making an obvious point.
“I wish I had died with them.” She had thought the words so many times, but this was the first time she’d actually said them. It felt good, but awful. Tears clouded her eyes. She wished she could hide back in the plants. She had to escape this room, this conversation. This man, with his intent, disturbing eyes.
She moved to stand but he grasped her hand. “No. Don’t go.”
“I must.”
“I’ve put you in a bleak mood and courtesy dictates that I cheer you up. Shall we have a dance after all?”
“I can’t. I’m in mourning.” Couldn’t he see her black gown, her somber, unadorned fan? “And I don’t like to dance.”
“Everyone loves to dance.”
“Not me.”
“Because you don’t know how.”
She shot him an aggrieved look.
He shrugged. “You don’t, do you? It’s only natural, given your history.” His noble features darkened in irritation. “Here, let’s do something about this. I can’t bear talking to you anymore through this blasted thing.” To Josephine’s shock, Lord Warren reached out and pried her fan from her fingers with all the casual insolence in the world.
“There, that’s better,” he said, setting it in his lap.
Josephine was flabbergasted. “You’ve just taken my fan.”
“I’m afraid so.” His exquisitely contoured lips curved into a smile.
She might not know the finer points of English etiquette, but she knew it wasn’t proper for gentlemen to go about appropriating ladies’ accessories at their whim.
“Give it back to me.” They were the only words she could manage in her flustered state.
He shook his head and placed it on the floor beside him. “If I give it back you might hide behind it again, and we can’t have that.”
“Give it to me, please.” She moved as if to reach for it and he took her wrist. It was the second time he’d put his hands on her. The third, if one counted peeling her fan from her fingers.
His gaze held hers. Light, and darkness. “I’ll give you back your fan if you’ll dance with me first.”
“I’ve said I don’t want to dance.” She pulled away from him, or perhaps he let her go. She could still feel his heat where he’d held her. “If this is some bizarre form of courtship, you’re wasting your time. I don’t plan to marry.”
He arched a brow. “That’s rather subversive of you.”
He mocked her. He seemed to find everything hilarious.
Josephine would have thought the situation could grow no worse, but then she glanced up and saw a horde of chattering females descending upon them, led by Lady Minette Bernard, who was the most annoyingly cheerful person Josephine had ever met.
“Oh, my dear Lady Maitland!” the woman exclaimed, leaning down to clasp her hands. “Or may I call you Josephine? Do you remember me from our audience with the queen? Well, your audience and then my audience. We certainly did not crowd before her together. Our pouffed-out skirts would have prevented it in any case.” Minette erupted in peals of tinkling feminine laughter.
Josephine heard a soft sound from Lord Warren beside her. He had stood politely at the approach of the women and now regarded Minette with an exasperated expression that echoed what Josephine felt. Minette chattered on, oblivious.
“But how elegant you look tonight in your black. I must know your dressmaker. And when you come out of mourning, what a sparkler you shall be. Bold colors look ever so dramatic with dark hair. I have always wanted red hair, especially deep, dark auburn red hair like yours. It’s so striking, and it makes one stand out, but my brother and I are blond as corn silk and always have been.” Minette made a vague gesture toward Lord Warren and her precipitate approach made more sense. This babbling young woman was his sister, which explained why she was as overbearing as him.
“I do remember you,” Josephine finally managed to reply.
“I’m so glad to hear it. Then we shall be Josephine and Minette from now on, and we shall call on each other in the mornings and be particular friends, especially now that you have made my brother’s acquaintance.”
Josephine didn’t know what making her brother’s acquaintance had to do with being “particular” friends, especially when both relationships had been forced upon her unwillingly. But she couldn’t be ungracious in front of this great group of house guests, which had swelled to include some young gentlemen.
“Of course we shall be friends,” said Josephine tightly.
Minette clapped her hands so hard that her blonde curls shook, then looked down beside her brother’s chair. “Oh, dear Josephine, your fan is on the floor. Warren, do pick it up before you trample it.” She turned back to Josephine. “It’s grown so hot in here, don’t you agree? But you look ever so splendid, as always. My hair goes wretchedly tangled in this kind of heat, but yours is smooth and sleek. Your lady’s maid must converse with mine and share her secrets.”
Josephine chose not to confess that she didn’t have a lady’s maid, since she seemed to alienate all of them within a day or two. She feared her daily care was a duty the regular household maids traded off as some kind of punitive measure.
“It has indeed grown unco
mfortably hot,” she said, standing and taking her fan from Lord Warren. “In fact, I’m not feeling well. I believe I shall retire.”
This resulted in a chorus of such feigned agony and disappointment that Josephine grimaced. She glanced at Lord Warren, who gazed back at her with laughter in his eyes and a twitch in his lips. Yes, everything was hilarious to him. She didn’t know why all the young ladies fawned over her and dragged along the gentlemen to give her soft-hearted looks. They considered her reclusive and mysterious, she supposed, when the truth was that she was miserable. Lonely, awkward, out of place, and unlikely to ever match their pretty manners and haughty miens.
“Please say you will stay and talk with us a bit longer,” Minette begged. “All of us are tired of dancing, and you have been neglected, sitting here alone.”
“I was sitting with her,” Lord Warren broke in. “Am I of no consequence?”
“I’m sure that depends on who you ask,” his sister replied with perfectly droll timing. “And anyway, Warren, I thought you only came here to drink and play cards?” This brought amused titters from the ladies and guffaws from the gentlemen.
“That, and find you a husband,” he sallied back. “If I can find anyone brave enough to take you off my hands. Gentlemen?” He turned to the assembled young men. “Anyone?”
More laughter as Minette waggled a finger and glared at her brother. Josephine watched this curious exchange. She’d always been an only child, so their bantering and bickering fascinated her. Charmed her.
She did not wish to be charmed by him.
“Thank you for your company, Lord Warren,” she said, breaking into their repartee. She looked around at the other guests. “I wish all of you a pleasant evening.” Before they could complain or cajole any more, she walked from the ballroom and hurried down the hall, where the constriction of panic in her heart and the beating in her temples finally began to ease.
*** *** ***
Warren watched for Lady Maitland the entire next day, even checked for her among the house plants. He wanted to be sure he hadn’t ruffled her too badly in the ballroom, but the baroness was nowhere to be found. At least he knew she wasn’t with Stafford, since the man dogged him at every turn, even inviting him out to a local flagellation parlor. Warren might have agreed to go if the invitation had come from anyone else.
To Tame A Countess (Properly Spanked Book 2) Page 2
