“We have an excellent Chambertin, miss.”
“My grandfather’s favorite wine!”
And one of the priciest vintages in the cellar, Marcus silently wagered, sure that in this case he’d win the bet.
“Right away, madam,” the servant replied.
“And some braised mushrooms. And buttered carrots.” She smiled at Marcus, innocent as a lamb. “My governess always made me eat my vegetables.”
“We wouldn’t want to endanger your health.” He forced a smile and hoped he had enough money.
When the meal was delivered by a team of inn servants, Miss Brotherton wasn’t rude. She simply behaved as though they didn’t exist and the numerous dishes had appeared by magic, as was her right. Marcus poured wine for them both—if he was going to pay for it he might as well enjoy it—and raised his glass. “To a most enjoyable day and an excellent dinner. May it be the first of many.”
She prodded her plate with a fork. “I believe the beef is overcooked.”
He’d had enough. The girl who had touched his steely heart had vanished, and he doubted she’d ever existed. How could he have mistaken her character so badly? Disappointment was capped by fear that his ability to judge a person had disappeared along with his luck. If that was so he really was in trouble.
There was more than one reason to accelerate the pace of his wooing, but the one that exercised him at present was the desire to get the better of this spoiled brat. With any luck he’d be offered the bribe to leave her alone and never have to see her again. By that time he’d deserve the money.
Time to soften her up for the killer blow.
Hunger fought with Anne’s desire to be as contrary as possible. She’d been doing a good job so far, considering her lack of experience in behaving badly. All her life she’d exercised the quiet good breeding her governess had taught her. The rudeness she’d exhibited today made her giddy. Each time Lithgow suppressed his annoyance—so subtly she wouldn’t have known had she not been looking for it—caused her a stab of satisfaction. But anger at him and disappointment in her own stupidity, having carried her through the long day, was fading a little in the cozy parlor with the enticing smells of a well-cooked dinner that made her mouth water.
She looked up from the unfairly maligned beef to find him gazing at her with the look of deceptive candor that had almost borne her to disaster. Against her better instincts she still found him attractive. She’d be safer if she could continue to behave like the spoiled heiress he’d called her, but her strategy was not to drive him off. He needed to believe he charmed her, so it was time to let herself be charmed.
“You should have let me choose the menu. I enjoy feeding women.”
Against all judgment she wanted to respond to the deceitful, caressing words. She helped herself to carrots and a tiny spoonful of the pudding. “What do you find they like?”
“Have you ever tasted truffles?”
“I don’t even know what they are.”
“Black gold from the ground.”
“Like coal?”
“In a way. A kind of mushroom that grows underground in France and Italy. Ugly but with a rich taste and scent. I wish I could feed you with veal as it is cooked in Turin, rich in wine with the sublime aroma of the precious trufelle sprinkled over it.”
“What else do you think I would like?”
“There’s nothing like food you gather yourself. I’d take you for a walk through a French wood, with dappled light through the old oaks revealing fraises du bois on the forest floor, like sweet, tart treasures.”
Almost tasting the tiny wild strawberries, Anne hooded her eyes. Also to avoid Lithgow’s green ones fixed on her face with a sensual glow.
“Then there are the southern fruits. Peaches and apricots as soft and blushing as a maiden’s cheek. A trite observation, I grant you, but nonetheless true. And oranges straight from the tree.”
“We grow them in the orangery at Camber but they are sour and a little dry.”
“Stunted trees forced in pots are all very well. You should see Seville at Christmastide. The streets are lined with trees loaded with fruit, brightening the winter gloom.”
“How pretty! May one pick them?”
“The Seville fruit is bitter. You would prefer,” he continued, “oranges from groves near Simione on Lake Garda, where the villa of Catullus lies.”
“That I would like to see,” Anne said.
“But you haven’t truly tasted an orange until you’ve picked one warm from the tree and eaten it in the sun with a view of the Bay of Naples, the juice dripping over one’s hands.” He put a forefinger into his mouth and sucked on it.
She couldn’t look away. Blindly she forked something into her own mouth—a carrot—and licked a stray trace of butter from her own lips. Her face grew warm. She imagined seeing these fabled spots with a guide as knowledgeable as he. And as appealing. If he wasn’t a scoundrel.
“Nothing in England can equal the experience.”
“Are you not happy here?” she asked. “Surely it is your home?”
“I’ve never had a home here, or not since my mother died when I was seven.” It was impossible to believe that the sadness in the back of his eyes wasn’t genuine. Her own parents having died when she was very young, she was susceptible to pity in this instance.
She put down her knife and fork. It was time to pull herself together before the snake had her dazzled into infatuation again. “I’m surprised,” she said, summoning the condescending tone of Lady Ashfield’s depressing pretension, “that you are seeking a position here. It’s the war, I suppose, that drove you back to England and its unsatisfactory food.”
“It was, but now I am glad. Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here with you. Try the mushrooms,” he coaxed. “They are very tasty.”
They were indeed but Anne ate only one, offering silent apologies to the excellent cook. She had decided that ordering a lavish dinner and then eating like a bird was the kind of thing a spoiled heiress would do. So she barely tasted each dish and claimed she didn’t care for half of them. Needing to keep her head clear, she only sipped at her wine and noted with satisfaction that Lithgow drank most of the bottle.
Driving him to drink.
“Thank you for the meal,” she said cheerfully, as though her behavior had not been abominable. “We’d better get back before it’s entirely dark. Where shall we go tomorrow? I’d like to climb to the top of the monument commemorating the Great Fire. The view is said to be very fine.”
Chapter 7
“I’m exhausted!” Anne sank into a chair in Cynthia’s drawing room. “I looked at every single rock, fossil, and specimen in that place.”
“The British Museum? I thought you loved it.”
“We had a change of plan. I made Lithgow take me to see the Lever collection instead.”
“When you found it in The Picture of London you said it sounded tedious.”
“Far, far worse than tedious. Poor Maldon thought I’d gone mad. So did Lithgow. He pretended to be fascinated but I’m happy to say he’s not as good an actor as I. He doesn’t like my political opinions either.”
“Do you have political opinions?”
“If I do they aren’t the ones I claimed today. I spouted every diatribe I’ve heard from Lord Morrissey, who believes half the population of the country deserves the gallows and most of the rest should be transported.”
Cynthia burst out laughing. “You wicked girl. Do you think Lithgow suspects?”
“If he did he would have taken me straight home. Or abandoned me the other side of the Thames, which is probably what I deserved. He acted like a perfect gentleman intent only on my amusement, but I could tell he was annoyed. You should have seen his face when I ordered a full dinner.” She stopped laughing. “The worst thing was having to treat the servant at the inn arrogantly. My governess would have scolded me roundly for such hoydenish manners.”
“I think that’s the least thing your governess
would have disliked about the expedition. Is this wise?”
“Wise, no. But despite the tedium I enjoyed the day. You have no idea how entertaining it is to behave badly.”
Cynthia looked away with a coy smile. “I have some idea.”
On her way into the house Anne had met the Duke of Denford leaving. She didn’t want to inquire what form Cynthia’s bad behavior had taken.
“Take care, Cynthia, and do not fall in love with the duke. I am protected by the knowledge that Lithgow is nothing but a shameless rogue.”
She couldn’t admit out loud that despite everything she still found her worthless suitor attractive. There had been moments during the afternoon when she forgot what she knew of him and wanted to relax into the pleasure of his company. When he’d talked about eating oranges . . . Her lips tingled and stomach fluttered. Perhaps she should let him kiss her again. If she was going to make use of a scoundrel for her own purposes, she might as well enjoy herself.
Then she recalled that moment in the dark, damp garden, hearing the words that dashed her newborn hopes. To Lithgow she wasn’t a person but a prize, a shining pile of gold in the lottery of life. Every word he’d spoken to her had been false, and she would make him suffer for it.
Marcus would have enjoyed the Raphael cartoons at the Queen’s Palace had the entrance fee not been ten shillings and sixpence each. Boydell’s Gallery in Cheapside was a shilling, but the cost of carriage hire was mounting. Climbing the monument required only a sixpenny tip to the boy who led them up the three hundred and eleven stairs. The soles of his boots suffered. Travis would have to take them to be mended, another expense. He looked forward to Westminster Abbey. It cost nothing to enter a house of worship. He hadn’t counted on paying sixpence for entrance to each of the kings’ tombs and there were a devil of a lot of them. English monarchs had been buried in the abbey with regrettable frequency and Miss Brotherton was enthralled by each and every one.
The investment would have seemed worthwhile if she had behaved more pleasantly. The modest, slightly shy girl he’d first encountered had vanished, to be replaced by a capricious tyrant. She kept changing her mind about her preferred destination, usually involving a drive that retraced the route just taken. She was haughty and dismissive with Marcus’s hired footman and with the attendants at places they visited. He found himself wanting to do nothing less than put her over his knee and give her a good spanking. If her upbringing had been strict—which he had cause to doubt—it had failed to teach her manners and kindness toward her perceived inferiors.
What he couldn’t decide was if those perceived inferiors included him. Most of the time she seemed to like him and appeared gratified by his increasingly lavish compliments. Yet there were moments when he sensed barely concealed contempt. She was attracted to him; he wasn’t mistaken about that. Confusingly, he couldn’t help finding her appealing in his turn. He’d wooed many women and even loved a few in a temporary sort of way, but he’d never found one as baffling as Anne Brotherton. The uncertainty was exciting, like holding a good hand against a first-rate cardplayer who might, or might not, have the means to defeat him.
Just when he was deciding that she was playing him for a fool and making use of him as a handy escort (and open purse; she never carried money) she’d throw him a smile that warmed him to the core. Practiced trickster that he was, he couldn’t for the life of him guess what her game could be. It made no sense. There was no reason for a young woman like her to risk her reputation being seen in company with a man like him except attraction.
He was getting ready for another outing when a caller knocked. In Travis’s absence he went to the door, not unduly upset about being late to pick up the heiress. It would do her good to wait for a change. A large, glaring man filling the threshold.
“What an unexpected pleasure,” Marcus said to the Duke of Castleton. “Last time we met you were naked. You’ll forgive me for saying that I prefer you fully dressed.”
His visitor appeared to be striving for control. “I advise you, Lithgow, not to refer to that occasion, unless you wish me to tear you limb from limb.”
“You are welcome to attempt it.” The duke might outweigh him by two stone, but Marcus was confident of outfoxing him, even in a confined space. “I’d be delighted to send you back to Caro with a broken nose.”
Peace, or rather absence of overt hostilities, hung in the balance. Marcus tilted his head in provocation, spoiling for a fight. Fists clenched, the duke glared, then collected himself, relaxing—if that was the right word—into his usual state of formality.
“I’ve come to talk to you, Lithgow, not to soil my hands,” he said.
“I have no idea why you do me so much honor.”
“Like hell you haven’t. Let me speak plainly.”
“When do you not?”
“Never, I thank God. I don’t have your talent for lies and dishonesty.”
“I do my humble best. Won’t you sit down?” The remains of his breakfast sat on the plain wooden table. Marcus was suddenly infuriated that Castleton, lord of mansions and countless servants, should see him in his lowly surroundings.
“This isn’t a social call,” the duke replied, not even favoring the room with a glance. It was quite simply beneath his notice. “I won’t beat about the bush. Leave Anne Brotherton alone.”
“Don’t be a dog in the manger, Castleton. You had your chance with her before.”
“That you should even raise your eyes to a decent young woman is a disgrace. You are and always have been a wart on the nose of humanity.”
Marcus had been the recipient of worse insults, but somehow this stung. “I’m curious, Castleton. When we were boys we were friends, of a kind. You taught me to ride when I visited Castleton House.” He wouldn’t admit that one long-ago visit to the ducal estate has been one of the happiest of his life, giving him a glimpse of a civilized and gentle world in contrast to the grubby contrivances of life with Lewis Lithgow.
“You fed Caro with some nonsense about me being responsible for the injury to a horse and blaming you. My father threw you out because your father was a thief.”
“I was eleven years old.” He despised himself for trying to excuse himself.
“And you’ve proven yourself a thief since,” was the pitiless response. “So leave Anne alone. She is my wife’s cousin and under my protection. I will not let you ruin her life.”
Resentment surged through Marcus’s veins. While he couldn’t justly blame the duke for all his woes, he felt like blaming someone and Castleton would do. At the very least he was responsible for the loss of Caro’s friendship.
“Did Caro send you?”
“Caro is none of your affair.”
“I’ve known her far longer than you have.”
“She’s put all that behind her.”
Marcus reassembled his bravado. “What? You aren’t going to invite me to Castleton for a family reunion?”
“My wife is a grown woman and I trust her to make her own decisions. But I will not willingly let you breathe the same air as my sisters. And I repeat: leave Anne Brotherton alone or you will regret it.”
Damn Castleton. If he’d married Anne Brotherton as he was supposed to, Marcus might still be poor, but at least Caro would still be hosting her friends at her cozy Conduit Street house and he wouldn’t feel alone. Nor would he have to deal with Miss Brotherton’s maddening whims.
Lithgow was quiet in the carriage that afternoon on the way to Westminster. Anne had expressed a fancy to observe the House of Commons in session, mainly because the entrance to the gallery was two shillings and sixpence. The supply of quips and smooth compliments seemed to have dried up and she missed the battle of wits.
Their exchanges resembled a dance in which she would curtsey, take his hand, and gaze coyly into his eyes, letting him believe she succumbed to his cynical advances. Then the music would change and she would escape his grasp with a waspish set-down. He was a much more experienced dancer than she s
o the exercise tended to make her dizzy and confused. And she had to constantly fight the attraction that would surface at inconvenient moments.
Now, for instance, she was conscious of a certain pique that he made no effort to charm her. Sitting beside her, he stared straight ahead, still and self-contained. He wasn’t a man who expressed himself much in gestures or body movements. The thought took her by surprise for she was not in the habit of studying her companions. She tended to take people as she found them. But Marcus Lithgow fascinated her. She wanted to know what was going on below his glib surface, despite the certainty that the handsome exterior covered a core of pure deceit.
“Why do you allow me to spend so much time with you?” he asked suddenly. “It will be the talk of the town when we appear in such a prominent location. Do you have no fear for your good name?”
“I don’t care,” she replied with her best shrug of disdain.
He smiled faintly. “I applaud your courage.”
“No courage needed. I don’t concern myself with the opinions of fools.”
“How fortunate to be able to ignore them.”
“Do you care what others think of you?”
“I have to, my dear. How else am I to succeed?” She felt a twinge of unwelcome sympathy. What else was he to do in life but cozen and cheat? No, that was wrong. Bad luck when life was meting out its advantages should not force a man into villainy.
She employed her most sickeningly sweet expression in preparation for the sting of the lash. “I think you succeed very well.”
“Here we are at Westminster Palace. Shall we apply for admission and see what pearls of wisdom we may garner from our nation’s representatives?” He alit and offered his hand to help her out.
“You know,” she said. “I find I no longer wish to listen to a parliamentary debate. I daresay the speakers will all be rogues and radicals.”
A sharp intake of breath greeted this latest capricious change of plan. “Where would you like to go?” he ground out.
Miranda Neville Page 7
