by Mary Balogh
Confound his misplaced sense of social responsibility. The fact that Eunice might applaud him for staying was no consolation.
The landlord appeared behind the counter and served Windrow with a tankard of ale before disappearing again.
Windrow turned to survey the room, and his eyes alit almost immediately upon the pink lady. But how could they not unless he was totally blind? He leaned back against the counter, resting his forearms back along it while clutching his tankard in one hand. His lips pursed in a silent whistle.
Edward was all the more annoyed at the blatantly sensual look on the man’s face because his own must have looked very much like it just a few minutes ago.
“Sweetheart,” Windrow said softly, obviously having dismissed Edward as a man of no account whatsoever—or perhaps he had not even noticed him, “may I persuade you to share my ale? Better yet, may I persuade you to share it and a meat pasty? There is only one comfortable-looking chair over by the fireplace, I see, but you may sit on my lap and share that too.”
Edward frowned at him. Could he not see that the woman was a lady? The evidence was glaring enough in the fine muslin of her dress, despite the bright shade, and in the intricacy of her coiffure of dark hair. He glanced at her, expecting to see her stiffen with horror and fright. She continued to stare out the window. She either assumed that the invitation was directed at someone else, or—was it possible?—she simply did not hear the words at all.
He should leave, Edward decided. Right now.
He spoke instead.
“I doubt you know the lady,” he said. “Calling her sweetheart, then, would be inappropriately impertinent.”
Maurice had often called him, affectionately enough most of the time, a staid old sobersides. Edward half expected to see dust emerge from his mouth along with the words. But they were spoken now, and he would not recall them if he could. Someone had to speak up for defenseless female innocence. If she was innocent, that was.
Windrow’s head swiveled slowly, and just as slowly his lazy eyes swept Edward from head to toe. His perusal aroused no discernible alarm in him.
“You were speaking to me, fellow?” he asked.
Edward in his turn looked slowly about the room.
“I must have been,” he said. “I see no one else present except the two of us and the lady, and I am not in the habit of speaking to myself.”
Slight amusement showed in the other man’s face.
“Lady,” he said. “I take it she is not with you. She is alone, then. I wish she were a lady. It might be mildly less of a yawn to frequent London ballrooms and drawing rooms. You would be wise, fellow, to address yourself to what remains of your ale and mind your own business.”
And he turned back to regard the woman’s derriere again. She had changed position. Her elbows were now on the sill, and her face was cupped in her hands. The effect of the change was to thrust her bosom into more prominence in one direction and her derriere in the other.
If she could only step back and see herself from this position, Edward thought, she would run screaming from the room and never return, even with a dozen chaperons.
“Perhaps this lady would care to sit in my lap while I call to the landlord to bring her a pasty and ale so that she may share with me,” Windrow said with insolent emphasis. “Would you, sweetheart?”
Edward sighed inwardly and moved one degree closer to an unwilling confrontation. It was too late to back off now.
“I really must insist,” he said, “that the lady be treated with the respect that any female ought to be accorded as a matter of right by anyone claiming the name of gentleman.”
He sounded pompous. Of course he sounded pompous. He always did, did he not?
Windrow’s head turned, and his amusement was quite unmistakable now.
“Are you looking for a fight, fellow?” he asked.
The lady seemed finally to have realized that she was the subject of the conversation behind her. She straightened up and turned, all wide, dark eyes in a narrow, handsome face, and all tall, shapely height.
Good God, Edward thought, the rest of her person more than lived up to the promise of her derriere. She was a rare beauty. But this was no time to allow himself to be distracted. He had been asked a question.
“I have never felt any burning desire to enforce gentility or simple civility with my fists,” he said, his tone mild and amiable. “It seems something of a contradiction in terms.”
“I believe,” Windrow said, “I have the pleasure of addressing a sniveling coward. And a stuffy windbag. All wrapped in one neat package.”
Each charge, even the last, was an insult. But Edward would be damned before he would allow himself to be goaded into adopting swashbuckling tactics just to prove to someone he despised that he was a man.
“A man who defends the honor of a lady, and who expects a gentleman to behave like one and confronts him when he does not, is a coward, then?” he asked mildly.
The woman’s eyes, he was aware, had moved from one to the other of them but were now riveted upon his face. Her hands were clasped to her bosom as though she had been struck by some tender passion. She looked remarkably unalarmed.
“I believe,” Windrow said, “the suggestion has been made that I am not a gentleman. If I had a glove about my person, I would slap it across your insolent face, fellow, and invite you to follow me out to the inn yard. But a man ought not to be allowed to get away with being a coward and a stuffy windbag, gloves or no gloves, ought he? Fellow, you are hereby challenged to fisticuffs outside.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the inn yard and smiled—very unpleasantly indeed.
Once more Edward sighed inwardly.
“And the winner proves himself a gentleman worthy of the name, does he?” he said. “Pardon me if I disagree and decline your generous offer. I will settle for an apology to the lady instead, before you take yourself off.”
He glanced at her again. She was still gazing fixedly at him.
He had, as he was fully aware, backed himself into a tight corner from which there was no way out that was not going to prove painful. He was going to end up having to fight Windrow and either give him a bloody nose and two black eyes to take to London with him, or suffer his opponent to dish out the like to himself. Or both.
It was all very tedious. Nothing but flash and fists. That was what being a gentleman was, to many of the men who claimed the name. Maurice, unfortunately, had been one of them.
“Apologize to the lady?” Windrow laughed softly and with undisguised menace.
That was when the lady decided to enter the fray—without uttering a word.
She seemed to grow three inches. She looked suddenly regal and haughty—and she shifted her gaze to Windrow. She looked him up and down unhurriedly and appeared to find what she saw utterly contemptible.
It was a masterly performance—or perhaps a mistressly one.
Her wordless comment was not without its effect, even though Windrow was half grinning at her. Perhaps it was a rueful grin?
“I misjudged you, alas, did I?” he asked her. “Because you were alone in here and leaning nonchalantly on the windowsill and dressed like a bird of paradise, I suppose. I cannot persuade you to share a pasty and a glass of ale with me? Or to sit on my lap? A pity. And it would seem I cannot persuade this sniveling coward to defend your honor or his own with his fists. What a sad day to have encountered when I had such high hopes of it when I awoke this morning. There is nothing for it, I see, but to resume my tedious journey and hope for a brighter tomorrow.”
And he pushed himself away from the counter, setting down his empty tankard as he did so, and would have sauntered out of the inn without a word more or a backward glance. He found an obstacle in his path, however. Before he could reach the door, Edward was there ahead of him and standing in front of it, blocking the way.
“You have forgotten something,” he said. “You owe the lady an apology.”
Windrow’s eyebrows ro
se and amusement suffused his face again. He turned back to the room and made the lady a deep and mocking bow.
“Oh, fair one,” he said, “it pains me that I may have distressed you with my admiration. Accept my humble apologies, I beg you.”
She neither accepted nor rejected them. She gazed coldly at him without relaxing her regal demeanor.
Windrow winked at her.
“I shall look forward to making your official acquaintance at some future date,” he said. “It is my fervent hope that that will not be far in the future.”
He turned to Edward, who stood out of the way of the door.
“And likewise for you, fellow,” he said. “It will be a distinct pleasure.”
Edward inclined his head curtly to him, and Windrow left the inn and closed the door behind him.
That left Edward and the lady in the taproom together again. But this time she knew he was there and so the impropriety could not be ignored or even silently fumed over. He was freshly annoyed with her—and with himself for having become embroiled in such an undignified episode.
She was gazing at him, the regal demeanor vanished, her hands clasped at her bosom again.
Edward inclined his head curtly to her and made his way outside. He half expected to find Windrow lying in wait for him in the yard and was almost disappointed to see no sign of the man.
Less than five minutes later he was inside his carriage again and on his way toward London. Ten minutes after that, the carriage passed a far smarter one—of course, it would have been difficult to find one shabbier—traveling with reckless speed in the opposite direction. He caught a glimpse of the coat of arms emblazoned on the door: the Duke of Tresham’s. He breathed a sigh of relief that at least he had been spared having to encounter that particular gentleman at the Rose and Crown in addition to Windrow. It would have been the final straw.
Tresham was not his favorite person in the world. And, to be fair, he did not doubt that he was not Tresham’s either. The duke had been another of Maurice’s friends. It was in a curricle race against him that Maurice had overturned his own and killed himself. And then Tresham had had the effrontery to turn up at Maurice’s funeral. Edward had made his opinion known to him there.
He wished anew that he could have stayed at Wimsbury Abbey. But duty called in London. And there was consolation, for Eunice was there too. She was staying with Lady Sanford, her aunt, and he would see her again.
It struck him suddenly that Tresham was driving in the opposite direction from London. Perhaps he was on his way to Acton Park. Perhaps he was going to remain there throughout the spring. It was something to be hoped for.
Who the devil was that lady back at the inn? Someone needed to take her in hand and teach her a thing or two about what was what.
But devil take it, she was a rare beauty.
He frowned as he shifted position in a vain attempt to get comfortable.
Beauty was no excuse for impropriety. Indeed, beauty called for more than usual discretion.
He still felt entirely out of charity with her, whoever she was. Unlike Windrow, he did not look forward to making her official acquaintance. He hoped rather that he would never see her again. He hoped she was traveling away from London rather than toward it.
Preferably to the highlands of Scotland.
Don’t Miss Mary Balogh’s Dazzling Quartet of Novels
Set in Miss Martin’s School for Girls
Simply Perfect
Simply Magic
Simply Love
Simply Unforgettable
Or Mary Balogh’s Beloved Classic Novels
The Ideal Wife
The Devil’s Web
Web of Love
The Gilded Web
The Secret Pearl
First Comes Marriage
Slightly Dangerous
Slightly Sinful
Slightly Tempted
Slightly Scandalous
Slightly Wicked
Slightly Married
A Summer to Remember
No Man’s Mistress
More Than a Misteress
One Night for Love
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARY BALOGH is the New York Times best-selling author of Simply Magic, Simply Love, Simply Unforgettable, and Simply Perfect, a dazzling quartet of novels set at Miss Martin’s School for Girls. She is also the author of the acclaimed Slightly novels, as well as the romances No Man’s Mistress, More Than a Mistress, A Summer to Remember, and One Night for Love. A former teacher, she grew up in Wales and now lives in Canada. Visit her web site at www.marybalogh.com.
If Then Comes Seduction stole your heart,
get ready to fall in love with
the next book in Mary Balogh’s series
featuring the extraordinary Huxtable family.
MARGARET’S STORY
Available from Dell
May 2009
And make sure to be on the lookout for
the following book in the series …
STEPHEN’S STORY
Available from Delacorte
June 2009
Turn the page for a sneak peek inside
AT LAST COMES LOVE
on sale May 2009
“The next set is forming,” remarked a lady whose name Margaret had entirely missed, and the marquess extended a hand toward Miss Milfort.
With her peripheral vision Margaret became aware of a flash of scarlet off to her right. Without even turning her head to look she knew it was Crispin and that he was making his way toward her, perhaps to ask her to dance with him, perhaps to seek an introduction to the Marquess of Allingham, who was betrothed to someone else.
The ghastly truth rushed at her.
She was not engaged.
She was not about to be engaged.
She was thirty years old and horribly, irreparably single and unattached.
And she was going to have to admit it all to Crispin, who had believed that she needed his gallantry since no other man could possibly want to offer her his company. Her stomach clenched with distress and incipient queasiness.
She could not bear to face him just yet. She really could not. She might well cast herself, weeping, into his arms.
She needed time to compose herself.
She needed to be alone.
She needed…
She turned blindly in the direction of the ballroom doors and the relative privacy of the ladies’ withdrawing room beyond. She did not even take the time to skirt the perimeter of the room but hurried across it, thankful that enough dancers had gathered there to prevent her from looking too conspicuous.
She felt horribly conspicuous anyway. She remembered to smile.
As she approached the doors, she glanced back over her shoulder to see if Crispin was coming after her. She was in a ridiculous panic. Even she knew it was ridiculous, but the trouble with panic was that it was beyond one’s power to control.
She turned her head to face the front again, but she did so too late to stop herself from plowing into a gentleman who was standing before the doors, blocking the way.
She felt for a moment as if all the breath had been knocked from her body. And then she felt a horrible embarrassment to add to her confusion and panic. She was pressed against a very solid male body from shoulders to knees, and she was being held in place there by two hands that gripped her upper arms like a vise.
“I am so sorry,” she said, tipping back her head and pushing her hands against his broad chest in a vain effort to put some distance between them so that she could step around him and hurry on her way.
She found herself gazing up into very black eyes set in a harsh, narrow, angular, dark-hued face—an almost ugly face framed by hair as dark as his eyes.
“Excuse me,” she said when his grip on her arms did not loosen.
“Why?” he asked her, his eyes roaming boldly over her face. “What is your hurry? Why not stay and dance with me? And then marry me and live happily ever after with me?�
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Margaret was startled out of her panic.
His breath smelled of liquor.
There had been no ball the evening after Duncan’s interview with his grandfather. Not one single one. London positively teemed with lavish entertainments every day and night of the Season, but for that one infernal evening there had been nothing to choose among except a soiree that was being hosted by a lady who was a notable bluestocking and that would doubtless be attended by politicians and scholars and poets and intelligent ladies, and a concert with a program clearly designed for the musically discerning and not for anyone who happened to be shopping in a hurry at the marriage mart.
Duncan had not attended either but had been forced to waste one of his precious fifteen days. He had gone to Jackson’s Boxing Salon yesterday afternoon when he might, he thought too late, have joined the afternoon promenade in Hyde Park to look over the crop of prospective brides. And today, when he had thought of going there, rain had been spitting intermittently from low gray clouds, and all he met were a few hardy fellow riders —all male—and one closed carriage filled with dowagers.
He had been reminded of those dreams in which one tried to run but found it impossible to move even as fast as a crawl.
But tonight there was Lady Tindell’s ball to attend, and it was a promising event. According to his mother, who planned to be there, it was always one of the grand squeezes of the Season since Lady Tindell was renowned for her lavish suppers. Everyone who was anyone would be there, including, Duncan fervently hoped, armies of young, marriageable hopefuls who were running out of time in the Season to find husbands.
It was enough to make him feel positively ill.
He had not told his mother about his grandfather’s ultimatum though he might have to enlist her help if he found himself unable to come up with a bride on his own within the next few days. His mother knew everybody She would be sure to know which girls—and, more important, which parents—were desperate enough to take a man of such notorious reputation in such indecent haste.
