The Lady Most Likely...

by Julia Quinn

  When she’d discovered that he’d been invited to the Finchley’s house party, she’d accepted her own invitation. Once here, she’d commenced flirting with Briarly just enough to spark Neill’s competitive drive. Since he must always win, she must represent herself as the prize. But when he had appeared, instead of entering the field as a contender for her hand, he’d done so in the guise of chaperone. Oh! The ignominy of it! And oh, how much changed he’d become. So distant and disciplined. So aloof …

  DuPreye had muttered something in her ear, and she came to with a start to find Neill’s gaze upon her. At once, heat flooded her face, betraying her. A moment later, Neill rose from his chair and came toward her. She waited, shivering with trepidation, but he hadn’t spoken to her at all. He’d only smiled and clapped DuPreye on the back and told him something she couldn’t hear.

  Why hadn’t he spoken to her? True, she’d not spoken to him either, but that was for a very good reason. She’d been trying to provoke him. He didn’t have a good reason. Unless he was being circumspect. Neill? Circumspect? Her frown deepened.

  “Come along, all of you,” Lady Finchley said, disrupting Kate’s thoughts as she stood up next to her husband. “There’ll be no port for the gentlemen this evening. We’ll play games instead, and I promise nothing too naughty.”

  Kate followed the other guests into the drawing room, noting as she entered that Chartres was handing the ravishing Lady Gwendolyn Passmore an iced punch, and Briarly was standing behind Lady Georgina, Lady Finchley’s widowed friend. She saw Neill leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, having set himself apart from the rest of the company. Not that the ladies let him remain there. Within a few minutes, a clutch of giggling girls had surrounded him. She almost laughed at the beset expression on his face, and the tension that had been building in her relaxed. He may have changed, but not so much that she no longer knew him.

  “One lady at a time will be blindfolded and seated here,” Lady Finchley explained, pointing to a chair that had been brought to the center of the room. “As soon as she is seated, the gentleman will queue up to kiss her hand.

  “If she chooses, the seated lady can try to guess the identity of the gentlemen at once, or she can choose to briefly touch the gentleman’s face and identify him by his physiognomy. If she can identify the gentleman simply by his gallantries, she will be awarded two points. If she can identify him after touching his face, she gets one point. But if she cannot name her suitor or she is wrong, she is out of the game. She stays seated in the center for as long as she can name her swains. The lady with the most points wins.

  “I shall go first,” Lady Finchley said, taking the seat and affixing a soft satin handkerchief around her eyes. The gentlemen traded grins and pushed Finchley to the head of a fast-forming line. He stepped before his wife and gently secured her hand, then with evident ardor bent his head and pressed a kiss on her knuckles.

  Her brilliant smile flashed beneath the blindfold. “I don’t need to touch your face, sir. It is one I kiss every morning—”

  Finchley straightened, grinning triumphantly at the other men.

  “—Grandfather.”

  The group burst into laughter and Finchley spun around, swooping down on his giggling wife and lifting her up from the seat while pulling the handkerchief from her eyes.

  “Baggage!” he declared fondly. “See what your teasing has got you? You’ve lost already.”

  “On the contrary, sir,” she said impishly, her eyes on his. “I believe I have won.”

  At which he kissed her soundly, to the applause of their friends.

  She fussed and swatted at him and colored up as pretty as a maid and looked around breathlessly, spying Kate. “Here, Miss Peyton. I am convinced you will do better than I.” She held out the handkerchief.

  “Oh, I … I—”

  “Come along, Miss Peyton,” DuPreye said, a trace of a sneer in his voice. “It’s a tame enough game. Tame enough even for the country. And the very young.”

  She could not decline. She must show herself to be a woman, not a girl, wide-awake on every suit and not some chit a worldly man would dismiss. “Of course,” she said, taking the proffered handkerchief and sitting down. She tied it close over her eyes and waited uncertainly.

  “Hold out your hand, Miss Peyton,” she heard Lady Sorrel say. “Your first suitor awaits.”

  A cool hand took hold of hers and raised it. A warm dry kiss brushed across her knuckles. She tilted her head. “I am afraid I must ask to read your face,” she said. She held up her hand, and the unseen gentleman guided it to his face. Quickly, her fingertips skimmed over his visage: pinched, narrow nose, sparse brows, overly long side-whiskers … Only the vicar wore such old-fashioned whiskers. “‘Tis the vicar,” she announced.

  Approving laughter greeted her answer, and Lady Finchley raised her voice, “One point for Miss Peyton. Next gentleman!”

  This time Kate knew to lift her hand. A firm hand took hold of hers, the fingertips long and the tips a little damp … She frowned, searching her memory for a long time for a gentleman whose fingers had a reason to be so cold. The Earl of Chartres had procured Lady Gwendolyn a glass of iced punch. “Lord Darlington,” she said.

  “Ah! Well done!”

  “I say, how did she know it was Charters?”

  “Two points!” Lady Finchley called. “Bringing her total to three. Next gentleman, please.”

  Kate was relaxing now. It was actually a rather fun game.

  “She shall be impossible to overtake at this rate,” she heard Lady Nibbleherd grumble as she lifted her hand for her next challenger.

  “Are you peeking, Miss Peyton?” Lord Finchley asked.

  “Not I, sir. The earl was drinking iced punch, and the vicar is the only man here with side-whiskers.”

  “Ah! Then let’s find a challenge for her. No fur or ice to give the next man away,” Finchley said. “You, sir.”

  She knew him as soon as he took hold of her hand. Recognition, bone deep and certain, danced along her nerves and rippled over her skin. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks and prayed the handkerchief hid most of the telling stain.

  She felt him bending nearer, the very air seemed charged with his presence, then his lips, warm, firm, and mobile, pressed against the backs of her fingers. Did they linger just a shade longer than decorum allowed? Her breath was too shallow to say. She hesitated, uncertain if she ought to reveal how well, in how visceral a sense, she knew him or feign ignorance.

  “I’m afraid I must …” She felt her blush deepen. “May I touch your face, sir?”

  A strong, callused hand clasped her wrist, guiding her fingers to his face. They feathered across his features: the bold nose, the wide mouth with its deeply curved lips, the hard square jaw shaved smooth prior to the evening’s dinner. His skin was deliciously warm, taut but resilient. His hair was cool and silky and thick.

  “‘Tisn’t fair,” she heard Miss Mottram complain. “She has been assessing his features far longer than ‘briefly.’”

  She snatched her hand away and cleared her throat, reminding herself that she was a seasoned veteran of such games, before saying lightly, “I wouldn’t even hazard a guess. I am afraid I do not know you, sir.”

  A little murmur of disappointment met her announcement, and she took off her handkerchief.

  “Why, Captain Oakes!” she said on seeing him. She pressed a hand to her heart. “I am astounded. One would hope I’d know you.” She batted her eyes.

  His narrowed, but he only said in a quite unaffected voice, “Yes. One would hope.”

  Did he not care? Had he changed so much that she no longer had the power to provoke him? The thought disturbed her. Whatever their relationship in the past, whatever she had been to him, it had been such that with a few well-aimed words, she could invoke emotion, fire, some sort of passionate reaction.

  “Who will be next?” Lady Finchley asked. “Come, ladies. Who’ll challenge Miss Peyton’s record?”

/>   At once, Lady Nibbleherd volunteered her niece, and amongst titters and laughter, Miss Mottram exchanged places with Kate. The rest of the evening passed quickly, one game led to another, the merriment growing as the evening hours waned. Kate laughed and smiled, played every game and won many, flirted with Lord Briarly and teased the blond and bemused-looking Mr. Hammond-Betts. She would have enjoyed herself immensely were she not waiting on tenterhooks all evening for Neill Oakes to approach and say something outré or do something outré like … like pick her up and kiss her. Which, of course, he didn’t.

  Damn the man.

  And so it went for the next five days and nights. He treated her with the utmost courtesy. His conversation was pleasant, serious, and formal. It was maddening. The only reason he gave her for joy was that he seemed utterly oblivious to the calves’ eyes cast on him by the majority of unattached young females. They simpered and tittered and fawned, but he showed not the slightest sign of returning their obvious interest. Instead, he stood back, contenting himself with the company of the other young gentlemen like Kitlas, Lord Landry, and Geerken, which in itself Kate found surprising as none of these pinks of the ton seemed the sort of fellow Neill would once have given the time of day.

  Otherwise, he was entirely attentive without hovering, always within circumspect range, diligent in offering her his arm should she lack for an escort, somberly complimentary, but never overly so, on her appearance. In other words, he was acting the consummate chaperone.

  And it finally drove her to desperation …

  Chapter 14

  You have been pressed into service by your hostess and must to take me to town,” Kate announced the next morning.

  Neill, breakfasting on the terrace as he read the morning posts from London, set down his cup, folded his newspaper, and looked up. Kate stood over him, a vision of elegance in a rouge-colored sarcenet spencer that fit closely over her lithe curves. A decidedly provocative little dark blue torque perched at a jaunty angle atop her white blond curls, its fringed satin trim flirting with her pink cheek.

  His heart catapulted in his chest, reacting in a way it never had four years ago. But four years ago her smile hadn’t been filled with such female deviltry, nor had her eyes held so much amusement. Four years ago she hadn’t been a woman, he realized. The casual, unconscious sway of her hips, the silvery laughter, the elegant brow that arched so … archly, the way her eyes danced a second before her full lips formed a smile, the tilt of her head, the fleeting arabesque of her fingertips as she illustrated some point she was trying to make, all of it conspired to make her mysterious and fascinating and utterly captivating.

  She really was not his Kate. Not as he remembered her. Not that it mattered in the least when it came to wanting her. If anything, he wanted her more. The last four days had been torturous. He begrudged every man there her most incidental touch, coveted every smile she offered another, whether it be boy or man, footman or duke. He prowled the perimeter of whatever room she occupied, covertly watching the men there for any hint of over-familiarity toward her, quick to caution against further transgressions.

  He told himself it was his duty to do so, his obligation, a matter of honor. In truth, he knew it to be because he wanted to claim her for his own, and he couldn’t. Until they left here, he couldn’t even court her; he was her bloody chaperone.

  It took all his effort to keep his expression bland now, but he managed to do so as he stood up and gestured for her to take a seat. She shook her head.

  “No, we haven’t time to dally. We have to go to town this morning,” she said.

  “We do?” he asked politely.

  “Yes, in order that I can buy some ribbons and return in time to trim my bonnet for this afternoon’s picnic.”

  He was torn. Part of him very much wanted the opportunity for a few private hours in her company. The other part resented being thrust into the role of doyen, like some toothless old uncle. Once again, he consigned Tom Peyton to perdition.

  “I am sure Lady Finchley will lend you the use of her carriage and a footman to take you.”

  “Were you not listening, Neill?” She shook her head impatiently. “All the footmen are currently employed setting up the marquee for the picnic or going about other errands.”

  “Perhaps one of the other guests can drive you?” he suggested. “Lady Sorrell has her own carriage, and she—”

  “Oh, for the love of all the saints, why cannot you ever do anything without an argument?” she broke in, tapping her foot. “If you want to refuse, pray lord, just do so rather than posing all sorts of alternatives and excuses.”

  “I don’t want to refuse,” he said sharply. He might be prohibited by the rules of etiquette to court her for now, but that didn’t mean he was going to deprive himself of her company if that was what she wanted, which she clearly did. Though why he could not say. “I will be delighted to accompany you, Miss Peyton.”

  “Hm,” she said, her expression somewhat mollified. “If this is what passes for delight in you, I should be interested to see your reluctance, Captain Oakes.”

  He smiled. She’d always had the knack of teasing him where others stood in terror.

  “I shall call for a coach at once.”

  “Don’t bother. One is already awaiting us at the front of the house.”

  He cocked a brow at her. “Very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  Her smile was enough to stop his breath. “When I want something. Oh, yes.”

  True to Kate’s claim, a blue cabriolet awaited them on the front drive. A young groomsman held the head of a high-spirited gray gelding while Neill handed Kate into the carriage before climbing into the driver’s seat.

  “The gray be a bit fresh, sir,” the groomsman said worriedly. “Would you like me to change him out for an easier-natured beast?”

  Kate answered before Neill could reply. “I will have you know, young man, that Captain Oakes was once the most bruising rider in the county.” She gave a sniff. “Indeed, I am amazed you have not heard of him.”

  Neill glanced at her, surprised that she had leapt so readily to his defense. Perhaps she had forgiven him his early sins and was prepared to return to the camaraderie of their youth. And from there might not a more intimate future beckon? Hope made him impulsive, and impulsiveness had ever been his bête noire. He was determined to prove to her he was mature, thoughtful, worthy of her.

  “Excuse my ignorance, miss,” the boy said, flushing. “I’m not native to these parts.”

  “Oh,” Kate said, her indignation disappearing. “Well, now you know. There was no steed in Burnewhinney beyond Captain Oakes’s ability.” She shot him an impish glance. “I trust that is still true?”

  “I daresay I can manage. Thank you.” With a flick of his wrists, he set the gray off at a brisk but controlled trot.

  They had gone but a short distance in an uncomfortable silence when Kate finally spoke. “Did you enjoy being presented at court?”

  He hadn’t in particular. London society held few charms for him, and pageantry did more for the morale of the populace than those it honored, but it seemed churlish to say so. “Yes. It was a great compliment.”

  She glanced at him out of the side of her eyes, her expression oblique. “You have changed then. You never used to care much for compliments.”

  He gauged his response before replying. “If one is to successfully lead men into battle and, more importantly, successfully lead them out, one must have their good opinion in order that they trust you. So, yes, in that I have changed. I know the value of having the good opinion of others.”

  The mockery disappeared from her face, and she bent toward him, touching his hand lightly. “I am ashamed of myself. I should have realized you were not interested in flattery as a means of improving your opinion of yourself.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Well, as I recall, the only reason I didn’t care for flattery when I was a lad was because my own opinion of myself was so exalted it nev
er required bolstering by others. Quite the cocksure limb of Satan, I was.”

  “Yes. You were.” She sounded wistful. “I daresay that stood you in good stead, too.”

  “How so?”

  “I cannot imagine one could become a captain without confidence. Just as the good opinion of others enabled you to lead, so, too, must have your self-confidence. Uncertainty would be anathema in battle.”

  Her insight and the gravity with which she spoke impressed him, and he looked at her carefully. “You speak as if you had considered such matters before.”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled, a trifle baffled. “What would have led you to deliberate on such things?”

  She turned, holding his gaze with hers, and said, quite simply, “Why, you, Neill.”

  His startled reaction caused the reins to bounce on the gray’s haunches, and the gelding danced sideways, forcing Neill to concentrate long enough to bring him back under control. By the time he’d done so, Kate had turned away and was once more calmly regarding the road ahead.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, trying with difficulty to sound nonchalant.

  She answered at once. “I was worried about you, of course. We may not have parted on the best of terms, Neill, but that does not mean I did not care about your welfare. So I thought about it. About you. And I decided that being bold and self-assured”—she darted a teasing look at him—“would not be an altogether bad thing in an officer.”

  “I am humbled by your concern.”

  She gave a light chuckle. She thought he was teasing her. He was not.

  “Yes. I cared what happened to you.”

  “Then why did you never write?”

  “I did.”

  Once again, she’d startled him. “But I never received any letter.”

  Again she chuckled, but this time there was a mature and sardonic edge to it. “Come now, Neill. You of all people know my darling brothers’ abilities and lack of abilities. Since when has any of my brothers been capable of parsing together more than the most rudimentary notes?”