The Scoundrel's Daughter

by Anne Gracie

  Alice hurried on without answering. She had no reason for their flight—no reason she could acknowledge, that is, except to herself.

  Panic, that was it.

  Lord Tarrant had smiled down at her with such a look in his eyes. Intense and yet warm and approving and . . .

  It had set off such flutters inside her.

  She’d had no idea what to do.

  And so she’d run.

  Which was utterly pathetic!

  But what else was she to do? She couldn’t encourage him.

  “It’s going to rain,” she told Lucy.

  Lucy glanced at the clear blue sky. “I see. A bit like my pallor the other night, then. Only in your case, it was brought on by a certain tall former colonel.”

  “Nonsense,” Alice muttered and hurried on. Lucy was uncomfortably perceptive at times. “What did you think of Lieutenant Chichester?”

  Lucy snorted. “A silly rattle and too full of himself, but entertaining enough for a walk in the park.”

  Alice nodded. And then there were times she was grateful for Lucy’s sharp mind.

  * * *

  * * *

  To Alice’s faint discomfort, Lord Tarrant called the following afternoon. Discomfort because, on reflection, she’d decided that she’d behaved foolishly the previous times she’d met him. She wasn’t a green, impressionable girl; she was a sensible widow who knew exactly what she did and didn’t want.

  Just because a man had never sent her into a flutter before by his mere presence. And the way he looked at her . . . And his smile. It was no reason to get all hot and bothered.

  She’d fallen out of the habit of socializing, that was all, and had read too much into the looks Lord Tarrant had given her. She wasn’t ever going to marry again, and even if he did intend improper overtures, it was nothing to be anxious about, because she was most definitely not interested in having an affair. All that horrid bedroom activity was, thank goodness, behind her.

  She was a mature, grown woman, and she would behave like one.

  Lord Tarrant was her third male caller that afternoon. Two of Thaddeus’s friends had visited—separately. Word had obviously reached them that she was receiving again. The first had suggested with a leer that he was more than willing to help assuage her loneliness. The arrival of other visitors prevented her from sending him off with a flea in his ear, and though she itched to smack his oily, presumptuous face, she had to make do with an icy response.

  The second of Thaddeus’s friends, Sir Alec Grafton, had arrived just as several ladies were leaving, and just after Lucy had excused herself for a moment. He took advantage of her brief lack of company to lean forward, place a heavy hand on her knee and make an even more blatant offer.

  She’d brushed away his hand like a repellent insect, and was in the process of coldly informing him that she was perfectly content as she was, thank you, and she’d be grateful if he never troubled her again—ever!—when Tweed announced Lord Tarrant.

  He must have overheard her delivering the last part of her little speech. He gave Sir Alec a hard look as the man took his leave, but his expression was smooth as he greeted her and took the seat she waved him to. On the opposite side of the room.

  There was a short, tense silence. If he so much as hinted that she might be lonely and in need of male company . . .

  He rubbed his hands together. “Brrr, pretty chilly in here at the moment.”

  Alice blinked. It was a sunny afternoon, and if anything, it was rather warm.

  His expression was an odd mix of rueful amusement. “Finding some of your visitors tedious, I gather.”

  “Not simply tedious—obnoxious, offensive and unwelcome.”

  “Dear me. If any more of that kind arrive, give me a wink and I’ll toss them out on their ear.”

  Was he serious? Or was he making fun of her? She couldn’t tell from his expression. Lucy returned, and two other ladies arrived. They exchanged greetings and made polite chitchat.

  It quickly became clear that Lucy wasn’t the focus of these ladies’ visit. Alice was their target. Lady Fanstock, the older lady, was a grandmother, and she and her daughter had come with a view to presenting Lady Fanstock’s middle-aged son, Threadbow, as a potential—nay, ideal—husband for Alice.

  Lady Fanstock waxed long and lyrical about Threadbow’s many fine qualities, and whenever she paused to draw breath, Threadbow’s older sister filled the gap with more encomiums. Threadbow was clever, he was sensitive, he would cause her no worries of the wandering sort—he’d never been in the petticoat line—and it was a complete fabrication on people’s part to suggest that he had weak lungs.

  Alice nodded, murmured polite, noncommittal responses and wondered whether the clock was broken. The hands were moving so very, very slowly.

  In the middle of one of these torrents of Threadbow praise, Alice happened to catch Lord Tarrant’s eye. He raised a dark, sardonic brow, winked, then jerked his head toward the door in query.

  Give me a wink, and I’ll toss them out on their ear.

  A bubble of laughter rose in her. She managed to turn it into a cough.

  Tea and little iced cakes were then brought in.

  Eventually Lady Fanstock and her daughter finished their tea and left. Lord Tarrant should have gone, too, but he made no move to depart, possibly because there were several little cakes remaining. It seemed Lord Tarrant had a sweet tooth. Before she could delicately suggest to him that his visit was well overdue to end, two more ladies arrived. He rose, greeted them politely and sat down again.

  Alice resigned herself and called for a fresh pot of tea and more little cakes—somehow they’d all been eaten.

  These lady visitors were visibly delighted with Lord Tarrant and pelted him with questions—attempting to discover, none too subtly, his marital status, fortune and plans for the future, as well as his war experiences. She was amused to see how he deflected the more intrusive questions by changing the subject so adroitly that the ladies didn’t realize it.

  She wasn’t surprised by their interest. There was something about him, something compelling. It wasn’t just that he was tall and ruggedly attractive; he had an air of command—not the kind of swaggering arrogance that she associated with her late husband and some of his friends, but a quiet assurance. As if he were perfectly comfortable in his skin and had nothing to prove.

  And of course there was the title and the fortune to go with it.

  While his attention was on the other ladies—and the cakes—she took the opportunity to look at him, really look at him. Without those disturbing, knowing gray eyes observing her interest.

  And that’s all it was, she told herself—interest. Curiosity. Nothing else.

  He was not heavy, as Thaddeus had been, but lean, with a body well used to hard exercise. And fighting, she reminded herself. He’d arrived wearing fine brown leather gloves. He’d removed them and now drew them through his long fingers over and over, as if restless—though in every other way he seemed relaxed.

  He was closely shaved. The thought prompted the memory of the faint scent of his cologne the evening of the party. His thick, dark hair was cut short, almost brutally so. She thought she detected a slight hint of curl.

  Alice repressed a smile. A number of men of her acquaintance cultivated a head of artistically arranged curls. She suspected some went to bed with their hair in rags, or perhaps their valets used curling irons. Lord Tarrant cut his curls off.

  He was plainly dressed in immaculate buff breeches, which clung to his long, lean legs, with their hard, muscular thighs. His linen was pristine, his neckcloth was neat but not ostentatious, and his dark blue coat, clearly cut by a master tailor, hugged his broad shoulders. His boots gleamed with polish, and unlike most fashionable gentlemen of her acquaintance, there were no fobs dangling from his waistcoat, just a plain gold watch chain.


  He’d stopped speaking, and she glanced up and found him watching her. Watching her watching him. Her cheeks warmed. Amusement glimmered in his eyes. And then she realized it wasn’t just him—everyone in the room was looking at her. Expectantly.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, addressing the ladies. “Were you talking to me? I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”

  “Quite all right, my dear,” the older lady said, with a knowing sidelong glance at her companion. “I was just wondering whether you and your goddaughter are planning to attend the Peplowe masquerade ball next week.”

  “Yes, indeed, we’re looking forward to it, aren’t we, Lucy?” Alice said, willing her blush to fade. “Lady Peplowe and her daughter called here earlier.” Lady Peplowe had very kindly sent a note the previous day adding Lucy to Alice’s invitation, and assuring Alice that had she known Lucy was visiting, she would have been included in the original invitation. Alice was delighted. Penny Peplowe was a thoroughly nice girl, the kind that she hoped Lucy would become friends with.

  The talk then turned to costumes, but as nobody wanted to reveal their costume plans in advance, the conversation soon dwindled. The two ladies rose to take their leave. Lord Tarrant rose also and bid them a courteous goodbye but made no move to follow them out.

  The two ladies exchanged glances once more, and Alice, hoping Lord Tarrant would take the hint, took Lucy with her as she escorted them to the front door, leaving Lord Tarrant alone in the drawing room.

  * * *

  * * *

  James leaned back in the very comfortable chair, crossed his legs and settled down to await her return. He was perfectly aware she wanted him to leave, but he had something to say to her first.

  He’d learned a few things about her in the time between dancing with her at the party the other night and calling on her this afternoon. From what he could gather, she’d had a number of men sniffing around her skirts and had given every one of them short shrift.

  From the prickly way she’d reacted to him on the previous two occasions, she was expecting more of the same from him. Even though he suspected she was feeling much the same attraction to him that he felt to her.

  Which was interesting. For a woman who’d been married for eighteen years and was now widowed, there was a strange kind of innocence about her.

  He needed to get to know her better. But first he had to get her to relax around him. He had a plan for that.

  “Still here, Lord Tarrant?” she said as she entered the drawing room. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, a pointed reminder that he’d stayed nearly three quarters of an hour. And most enlightening he’d found it. The old tabbies were trying to match her off, trying to foist some spineless nonentity onto her. And she was trying to match her goddaughter up with whoever she could.

  The goddaughter—now, she was a bit of a mystery. A minx, he thought, and sharp enough to cut herself. She’d lead some man a merry dance.

  He’d risen to his feet as she entered. “Thank goodness. I thought they’d never leave.” He also thanked goodness—silently—that the goddaughter hadn’t yet returned. He had Alice all to himself. He couldn’t think of her as Lady Charlton, not when that harpy, Gerald’s mother, had the same title. But convention had to be observed.

  “It is polite to stay for no more than twenty minutes,” she said crisply. He sat down again, but this time took the chair next to hers. Alice gave him a startled look and edged slightly away, smoothing her skirt.

  “I know, but I wanted to ask you something. In private.”

  She stiffened, took a deep breath, then said in a rush, “Thank you for your interest, Lord Tarrant, but I must—I wish to make it clear that—” She broke off, her cheeks delightfully rosy. She took another deep breath and continued, “I must tell you that I am not interested in any, um . . . in any kind of liaison—respectable or . . . or otherwise.” She met his eye. It was some kind of gauntlet then.

  He raised a brow, and she added firmly, “In other words, I have no interest in marrying again, or in pursuing any, um . . . anything else.”

  “I see.” James kept his voice solemn. She was adorable. And charmingly flustered. “You’ve made your position very clear,” he assured her. “No ‘um’ or anything of that nature. Understood. What about friendship?”

  She blinked. “Friendship?”

  “It can happen between consenting adults of the opposite sex, I believe.”

  “You don’t mean . . .”

  “I’m talking about simple, everyday, out-in-the-open friendship. Of the completely respectable kind.”

  She gave him a doubtful look. “It’s not a euphemism?”

  “For ‘um’? Definitely not.”

  “Oh.” Was that disappointment he heard in her voice? Or relief?

  She still appeared wary of his motives. Time to play his three little aces. “The thing is, I have three small daughters who I haven’t seen for four years—I’ve never even seen the youngest. I’m planning to bring them to London to live with me. They’re living with their maternal grandparents at the moment, but I want them with me.”

  “Daughters? You have three young daughters? You’re married, then?”

  “Widowed these four years.”

  “Oh.” Quite a different kind of oh from the previous one.

  “I’ve sent for my old nanny, and I suppose I’ll hire a governess eventually, but”—he gave her a frank, manly look—“I’m a man, a former soldier, and out of my depth with young females. It would be good to have a friend—a female friend—to talk things over with and to advise me from time to time.”

  “Ohhh. You want a friend to advise you about your daughters? A female friend.”

  “Exactly.” He leaned across and placed his hand over hers. “So, Lady Charlton, would you consent to be that friend?”

  She looked at his hand and hesitated. “Of course I would be glad to advise you about your daughters but—” She broke off as Miss Bamber came skipping into the room.

  “Sorry, I— Oops. Have I interrupted something?”

  Alice snatched her hand away. “Not at all. Lord Tarrant was just leaving.”

  James, who had risen to his feet after Miss Bamber entered, said. “Not quite yet. I have something to ask you first.”

  Lucy immediately turned to leave. “I’ll go.”

  “Stay right where you are, Lucy,” Alice said. The girl glanced at her godmother in surprise.

  “Yes, stay, Miss Bamber,” James said easily. “This concerns you as well.”

  Lady Charlton gave him a surprised look. Lucy sat down. James sat as well.

  “I wondered if you’d like to go to the theater,” he said. “It’s Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream—quite an entertaining production, I’m told.”

  Lucy’s face lit up. “The theater? I’ve never been to the theater.” She turned to her godmother. “What do you say Ali—I mean, Godmama?”

  Lady Charlton visibly hesitated. So cautious, even about a simple visit to the theater. Was she like that with everyone? Or every man? Why? Still grieving for her husband, perhaps.

  James had plans for Alice, Lady Charlton, but he meant it about being friends with her. He definitely wanted to get to know her better. A lot better. “I’m putting a small party together for tomorrow night. I have the use of a box and—”

  Alice said, “It’s very short notice,” at the same instant that Lucy said eagerly, “We’re not doing anything tomorrow, are we?”

  James pretended not to notice Alice’s chagrin. “It has to be tomorrow night,” he explained. “I’m leaving London the next morning.”

  “Leaving London?” Lucy echoed. She glanced at Alice. James didn’t miss the exchange. Interesting.

  “Yes, I’m collecting my daughters from their grandparents’ home in Bedfordshire.” To Lucy he explained, “My wife died four years a
go, not long after she gave birth to my youngest. I’ve never seen her—my youngest, that is.”

  “Why not?” Lucy asked, her voice sharp with disapproval.

  James wasn’t offended. “I was overseas, away at war when she was born—in England. Then there was Waterloo. Later I was caught up in the mess that results in the aftermath of war. The army is a demanding master, Miss Bamber, and we officers have little say in where we are sent. But I found I missed my girls too much, and so I decided to sell out and come home.”

  “Why didn’t you go straight to Bedfordshire?” Lucy demanded. “If you missed them so much.”

  “Lucy, it’s not our business—” Alice began.

  “No, Lady Charlton, it’s quite all right,” James said. He turned to Lucy. “That was my original plan, Miss Bamber. But I stopped to break my journey overnight in my London house and discovered chimneys blocked with birds’ nests, a leaking roof, peeling wallpaper and more. So for the last week or so I’ve been setting the house in order to make it fit for my girls.”

  He gave a rueful smile. “They might have started their lives in tents and peasant cottages, but for the last four years they’ve become accustomed to something much finer. But it’s almost all done now, and the final touches will be completed while I’m in Bedfordshire. I hope to have them with me in London by Friday week. So, will you join my small party at the theater tomorrow night, Lady Charlton, Miss Bamber?”

  Alice hesitated, but Lucy was gazing at her with such a naked plea in her eyes that James wasn’t surprised when she sighed and said, “Thank you, Lord Tarrant. We’d be delighted.”

  “Excellent. I’ll send a carriage to collect you.” James rose and took his leave.

  He stepped out into the street feeling mildly triumphant. Now, who did he know who had a box at Drury Lane Theatre?

  * * *

  * * *