by Amelia Grey
Iverson didn’t bother trying to deny the story that he was courting Miss Crisp and said, “I was looking for Sir Phillip.”
Sir Randolph’s face relaxed a little. “That’s what I’m doing, too.”
“In that case, I can save you a lot of trouble. The man is not at home.”
Sir Randolph cocked his head and scrunched his forehead tighter. “Are you sure? Maybe he’s just hiding somewhere in his house, writing more of his poetry and stories?”
Iverson grunted a laugh and was tempted to say, “After what I went through a couple of days ago, hell yes, I’m sure.” But instead, he said, “I exhausted every possibility. I’m convinced the man’s not here.”
“That’s too bad. I would really like to have a few words with the fellow before the day is over. I was at my home in Norfolk when I received my copy of The Daily Herald and read A Tale of Three Gentlemen. I came back to London early just to have a few words with him. Perhaps I’ll wait for him.”
Iverson grimaced. “I tried that a couple of days ago, and his daughter wasn’t fond of that idea.”
Sir Randolph grunted. “I suppose I can understand that. What were you told in regards to when he will return?”
“I wasn’t able to get a conclusive answer about that. I was told I should check back at a later time. So that’s what I’ve been doing. Every day.”
The old man seemed to consider what Iverson said. He finally nodded and said, “Then I guess that leaves me with no choice but to do the same. He’s bound to show up sooner or later.”
“After talking to Miss Crisp, it’s believable to me that Sir Phillip is an indolent fellow who walks around with his head in the clouds.”
“It appears we are alike in our thinking about him.”
Iverson’s eyes narrowed, and he shifted his stance. He was certain that wasn’t something he wanted to hear. “That depends.”
Sir Randolph cocked his head again. “On what?”
“Did you approve or disapprove of what he wrote?”
Understanding dawned in the old man’s eyes. “It’s clear you don’t know me, or you wouldn’t have to ask that. I don’t mind enlightening you. I intend to see that Sir Phillip keeps his stories, parodies, thoughts, or whatever he calls them, to himself from now on. I don’t think any more of his nonsense will show up after I have a talk with him.”
The old man was full of surprises. “In that case, maybe we do think alike. But you don’t have to bother coming back to see him. I have this handled.”
Sir Randolph chuckled low in his throat and shook his head. “As I said, you obviously don’t know me. This is a matter of honor to me, Mr. Brentwood. I’ll have my say with Sir Phillip.”
“Understood.”
“I would appreciate it if you would let me know when you hear he’s back in Town.”
There was something to be said for the fact that Sir Randolph didn’t let Iverson scare him off. He kept his gaze tight on the old man’s eyes and said, “You do the same.”
“You can count on it.”
The dandy turned and started back down the walkway. Iverson called back to him, “Sir Randolph.”
He stopped and looked over his shoulder at Iverson.
“Do you have any idea where Sir Phillip might be?”
“What did his daughter say about why he was away?”
Thinking of Miss Crisp made Iverson give a rueful smile. “Only that he left to follow his muse.”
“Ah, that must mean he has a mistress. I’ll ask around at the clubs and see if I can find out where he spends his time.”
Iverson hadn’t thought about the idea he might be with a woman. The old man was sharp as the point of a needle, but that didn’t mean Iverson trusted him. “You’ll let me know?”
Sir Randolph nodded once and started down the walkway.
Why hadn’t it occurred to Iverson that Sir Phillip could be spending a few days with his mistress? Now that he thought about it, it made sense. If that was where the poet was, he certainly wouldn’t want his daughter to know.
Eight
However much we may distrust men’s sincerity, we always believe they speak to us more sincerely than to others.
—François de La Rochefoucauld
Iverson walked up the steps to Lady Windham’s opulent Mayfair home, thankful he had no lasting pains from the injury to his hip. He left his hat, coat, and gloves with the servant at the front door. He stopped at the doorway to the drawing room. Staring into the crowded room reminded him why he always went to parties late.
He hated crowds.
Whether in Baltimore or London, Iverson didn’t like being crushed shoulder to shoulder and elbow to elbow with people he didn’t know well and had no intention of getting to know well. The music was always loud and lively, and no matter how cold the nights were outside, inside the rooms were always hot and stuffy from hundreds of burning candles and lamps. The reek of cooked foods and liquor hung in the air, mixing with pungent perfumes, stale smoke, and scented beeswax. It was enough to turn any man into a nighthawk. And even though Lady Windham’s house was one of the largest in Mayfair, it was no exception to the general rule of a crush. The Society-led lady couldn’t bring herself to be judicious in the number of people she invited.
Ballrooms mobbed with revelers were only a little better in grand places like the Great Hall, so arriving late had always suited Iverson. It usually meant the crowds had thinned. The musicians were tired and played softer and slower music. The reverberation of chatter and laughter of the guests had slowed to a low hum, and the candles had burned low. That was when Iverson liked to enter a party.
But he wasn’t at Lady Windham’s for the merrymaking this evening, or for the three lovely young ladies who were smiling at him across the crowded way. He was there for one reason only, and that was Miss Crisp. She had told him she always came early and left early. For reasons Iverson didn’t quite understand, he was dying to see her again, so he swallowed his desire to leave and walked farther into the house.
After searching every face in the assembly and every corner of the drawing room, Iverson didn’t see any sign of Miss Crisp. He turned and strode down the corridor to the next room, which unfortunately, was just as crowded with beautifully gowned ladies and impeccably dressed gentlemen, but he quickly spotted his prey. Iverson’s lower body throbbed at the sight of her.
She was a vision of loveliness, with her hair loosely swept up, a thin rope of delicate-looking white flowers entwined throughout her shiny dark locks. The alabaster-colored gown she wore was banded at the high waist, the hem, and the short capped sleeves with a wide copper-colored ribbon. A cascade of pearl earrings dangled from her ears, but she wore no jewelry around her neck, leaving the hollow of her beautiful throat and chest bare, sensuous, and ever so tempting.
She stood in the arc of three gentlemen who were vying for her attention. She smiled and talked to all of them.
As he watched her for a few moments, he could see she favored one of the gentlemen over the others, and that made Iverson’s stomach tighten. The only thing he knew about the man who had caught her eye was he had become the latest Earl of Bighampton about a year ago.
“Miss Catalina Crisp is beautiful, isn’t she?”
Iverson turned and saw Lord Waldo Rockcliffe standing beside him. Damnation. Iverson tensed. What had possessed the sap to come up and speak to him, and what was he doing letting a greenhorn catch him watching Miss Crisp?
“Very,” Iverson muttered more to himself than to the duke’s brother.
“She doesn’t come to very many parties. She’s very elusive, which is why she’s always wrapped up by hopefuls seeking her attention when she does Society the favor of coming out for an evening.”
Lord Waldo paused, and Iverson wondered if the man expected him to make a comment. He remained quiet. Iverson had seen Lord Waldo on several occasions since their disastrous first meeting shortly after Iverson arrived in London, but the two hadn’t spoken. He had nothing to say to the man.
In fact, he was surprised Lord Waldo had the courage to speak to him after Iverson had given him a black eye.
“At first,” Lord Waldo continued, “I thought her sporadic attendance at parties was a ploy to keep interest in her high. Some ladies do that, you know. But I gave up on that idea when she never accepted any gentleman’s intentions to call on her.”
Lord Waldo fell silent again, giving Iverson a moment to think. Was it true Miss Crisp had never allowed any gentleman to call on her? If so, that intrigued Iverson, and he wanted to know why, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Lord Waldo for his opinion on that. Iverson knew it wasn’t that she was put off by men in general. The passion and eagerness of her kisses had told him that.
“Is it true,” Lord Waldo continued where his conversation left off, “that you are courting her?”
First the man asked him why he looked like Sir Randolph, and now this. The blade must be a true nincompoop. “Think about what you just said, Lord Waldo, and then ask yourself if you really want to ask me any more questions.” Iverson started walking away.
“Mr. Brentwood?”
Iverson didn’t know why but he turned back to look at Lord Waldo. The young man blinked rapidly, and Iverson could tell he struggled with what to say. Iverson remained quiet and waited. Iverson wanted him to know he was utterly indifferent to anything he had to say.
“I want to thank you for helping look for my brother’s dog that night in the park a few weeks ago.”
“My brother’s dog was missing, too. I wasn’t helping you. I was helping him.”
Iverson left Lord Waldo staring at him with wide-eyed surprise and entered the swirling throng of people. He headed straight toward Miss Crisp. He supposed he should have been a little nicer to the duke’s brother. Obviously the man was trying to make amends, but Iverson wasn’t in the mood to be forgiving. Not tonight anyway, and especially not if the prig expected him to discuss Miss Crisp. Besides, right now, the more he watched Miss Crisp smile at Lord Bighampton, the more he wanted to get her away from him.
The earl must be at least twice her age, if not more. His hair was thinning, and his waist was thickening. But he had a title, and Iverson knew most young ladies liked to fancy themselves married to a titled man. Somehow he hadn’t thought that would matter to Miss Crisp, but maybe he was wrong. She’d said she didn’t want to dance with him, so his mind was swirling with possibilities of ways to lure her away from the new earl.
He grunted a laugh to himself. In the past, it had never bothered him to see a young lady he was interested in smiling and talking with another man. Iverson was always confident that if he wanted the lady, she was his, and he didn’t mind a challenge from another man, because Iverson always expected to win. But he had no such confidence where Miss Crisp was concerned. He hadn’t figured it all out yet, but he knew his feelings for her were different from any other lady who had caught his attention.
On his way through the crowd, Iverson was stopped by a group of gentlemen eager to tell him how much they enjoyed Sir Phillip’s story. It amazed him people actually thought he and his brother would be flattered by their comments. He quickly excused himself but was then waylaid by a young lady eager to talk about A Tale of Three Gentlemen, so as soon as he could, he left her side, too. He bowed to a countess and smiled at a young lady who winked at him as he continued his trudge toward Miss Crisp. She caught sight of him just before he stopped in front of her. He could have sworn he saw appreciation in her eyes when she looked at him, and that made him feel damned good.
Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, Iverson greeted the earl first, as Society dictated, and then Miss Crisp, and lastly the other two hangers-on before turning back to her, and without blinking an eye, said, “Your aunt said if I saw you to please ask you to make a moment for her.”
Concern flew into Miss Crisp’s green eyes, and he immediately knew he had used the wrong tactic. She was very protective of her father and her employees, and he should have remembered she was that way about her aunt, too.
“Is Aunt Elle all right?” Miss Crisp asked, taking a step toward him.
“Yes, yes,” he hastened to say. “There is nothing wrong with her.”
“Oh, good,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief, though her eyes remained guarded. “All right, I’ll go to her at once. Please excuse me, gentlemen.”
She turned to Iverson and asked, “Do you know where she is?”
“I’ll help you find her.”
“Please allow me to do that for you,” Lord Bighampton said to Miss Crisp, stepping in front of Iverson and blocking Iverson’s view of her. “I’ve been coming here for years, and I know Lady Windham’s house quite well.”
Iverson wasn’t going to let the bulky man get the best of him.
“No need for you to bother yourself, my lord,” Iverson said as he came from around the earl and touched Miss Crisp’s elbow and gently propelled her forward and away from the other men. “I know exactly where her aunt is, and it’s no trouble for me to take Miss Crisp to her.”
Iverson smiled to himself, knowing the earl’s eyes were throwing daggers at his back. As soon as they were far enough away so no one could overhear them, Iverson had to tell Miss Crisp the truth, so she wouldn’t continue to worry about Mrs. Gottfried.
“I have a confession to make,” he said as they threaded their way through the mass of people crowding the doorway.
She glanced at him. “To me? Please, Mr. Brentwood. I’m hardly the person who wants to hear your confessions. Save that for the church.”
“This one you’ll want to hear.”
“Ah, so at last you’ve decided to repent and tell me you are sorry you threatened my father. That I want to hear.”
“No, I’m not that good. The threat stands.” They moved into the corridor.
“What else could I possibly want to hear from you?”
“That your aunt didn’t ask me to send a message to you. I haven’t spoken to her tonight.”
An incredulous expression formed on her face, and she stopped walking and moved to stand against the wall. “What did you say?”
“My comment to you about your aunt was merely a ploy to get you away from Lord Bighampton.”
Her eyes widened, and her tempting lips parted just enough to make Iverson want to reach over and kiss her.
“That was more than a ploy, sir. That was a bold untruth.”
Iverson let his gaze slowly caress her face before he said, “I admit it was, but I was forced to do it.”
Concern edged its way into her expression, and she eyed him warily. “Forced in what way, and by whom?”
He took hold of her elbow and guided her to the far end of the dimly lit corridor, near the door where the servants were going and coming from the kitchen. “By the earl,” Iverson whispered as if he were telling her a big secret. “The way the man kept looking at you had me thinking he wanted to pounce on you and gobble you up for his dinner. And by the looks of him, he’s eaten quite enough already.”
Even in the poor lighting, Iverson could see the corners of her mouth twitch in humor as she tried her best not to smile. He was relieved she wasn’t angry with him about the prevarication, and an unexpected rush of satisfaction filled him.
She gave an unconvincing sound of indignation and said, “That is a most unkind thing to say about Lord Bighampton and his size.”
Feeling comfortable she wasn’t really upset by his comment about the earl, Iverson said, “But true, is it not?”
“No, of course it’s not true. Portly”—she cleared her throat—“I mean robust men look very vigorous and healthy, like the Prince.”
“Vigorous? Are you sure, Miss Crisp?”
“Yes,” she said, sounding more like she was trying to persuade herself than him. “And, I might add, he was behaving like a perfect gentleman—something you know nothing about.”
Iverson grinned. She was doing her best to make him think she was outraged, but Iverson could clearly
see she wasn’t. He had the feeling she wanted to laugh out loud and enjoy their conversation as much as he was. That pleased him immensely.
“I think you are trying to convince yourself of that, Miss Crisp.”
She huffed. “Does your arrogance have no borders, Mr. Brentwood?”
He shook his head. “No fences, either. And, as we both know, I dare a lot.”
“Indeed you do. Too much.”
“It’s a bad habit.”
Iverson was enjoying himself. He could see by the sparkle in her lovely green eyes that in spite of what she was saying, she was enjoying their conversation, too.
“And you don’t have to admit it to me or even to yourself, but I know you must have felt the same way about Lord Bighampton every time he looked at you.”
“I felt no such thing,” she said without conviction. “You have no insights as to what I feel, sir.”
She loved to challenge him. “Don’t I?” His heart started beating faster, and forgetting where they were, he stepped in closer to her. His gaze fastened on hers, and his voice turned husky as he said, “I know exactly what you were feeling when my lips were pressed against yours today. I know what you were feeling when your breasts nestled softly against my chest, and what you felt when your knees went weak as my tongue explored the warm depths of your sensuous mouth.”
“Don’t,” she whispered huskily, her chest heaving with short, gasping breaths. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
Iverson knew he was tempting fate by standing far too close to her, and he was so tempted to lower his head and kiss her delectable lips. More gossip about him courting Miss Crisp wouldn’t be a bad thing. Still, if he didn’t move away quickly, he could sully her reputation, and that he did not want.
He took a step away from her and said, “Why not? They are true. What I shouldn’t say is untruths. I didn’t intend to cause you any concern about Mrs. Gottfried. And I only said she wanted a moment of your time, so there was no need for alarm over that innocent comment.”
“But Aunt Elle can sometimes get—”
She stopped, and all thoughts of teasing her further vanished.
