Theresa Romain

by It Takes Two to Tangle

  Frances drew in a long breath. “Thank you for that. I must say, your manners are quite as pretty as anyone could hope.”

  His mouth curved on one side, denting his cheek. “It’s not good manners, but frankness. I’d much prefer not to have people ignore my injury. I won’t be able to rejoin society if others pity me.”

  Pity. The word was so small yet so terrible. Frances had met pity before, and the two had parted as enemies. “I understand. And I assure you I meant only to apologize for something that might have seemed unfeeling. I’ve known other soldiers before you. None of them wanted pity as much as they wanted a good meal and a quick tumble.”

  He choked. “You really are a little terrifying.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  She had thought his face stern, his smiles carefully measured. But now it broke into a grin, quick and sunny and full of mischief, and she caught her breath at the sweet suddenness of it. “No, you’re quite right,” he said. “Add a soft bed, and I do believe you would capture every soldier of my acquaintance.”

  “A good thing you’re not a soldier anymore, then, as London offers beds and meals and tumbles aplenty.”

  His shoulders shook. “I hadn’t expected such plain speech in a ballroom, I admit.”

  Her stomach gave a sweet little flip. He hadn’t exactly given her a compliment, but it was a tiny triumph to surprise this man. She was beginning to find him intriguing, with his wounds and his frankness, his humor and determination.

  And intriguing was not something she came across very often when talking with Caroline’s suitors. Frances was famished for intriguing. Especially when intriguing had intent blue eyes and captured her in conversation.

  She dragged her thoughts back into crisp order. “Caroline tolerates it, fortunately. As a companion to a countess, frankness serves me well. I am her second set of eyes and ears, and if I do not report accurately, I cannot help her.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Will you be reporting on me, then? Perhaps I ought to fetch you some wine instead of the orgeat my brother inflicted upon you.”

  “You needn’t get me inebriated in order to get a favorable report.”

  “Oh? What must I do?”

  Nothing more than you already have. She flexed the sticks of her fan again, far too hard, and the cracked ivory snapped. “You’ve told me the truth about what you want, and you’ve asked for my help. That’s singular enough.”

  “You’ve broken your fan,” he said with a nod at the wounded accessory.

  “It’s not mine,” Frances blurted. Her fingers felt clumsy on the fragile, ruined ivory. “Please, never mind it.”

  He studied her for a long moment, and she drew herself up as tall as she could. She was a baronet’s daughter by birth, after all. There was no need to become agitated under the scrutiny of this golden man, who asked and noticed things that no one else did.

  So she told herself—yet as he studied her, her blood seemed to rush a little more quickly through her veins. Though she sat carefully straight, she thought of… rolling over.

  Ridiculous. It had been far too long, that was all; her imagination was as overheated as this ballroom. “About Caroline,” she said in a voice that was all business. “You want my help in courting her.”

  He drummed the fingers of his left hand on the arm of his chair. “Help with courtship sounds a bit excessive. What if we limit it to advice?”

  “Oh, certainly. I’m excellent at giving advice.”

  He smirked. “I’ve heard that often this evening.”

  Frances drew her chin back. “What? That I inflict advice on people?”

  Again, that quick mischievous grin. “No, no. I can’t speak to that, having only just met you. But the whole of the ton has been remarkably free with advice tonight, much to my good fortune.”

  Ha. She could well imagine. Everyone would want to be the first, the closest to a man retrieved from the violent mysteries of war—whether he returned as a prodigal son or a hero.

  “That is indeed fortunate,” Frances replied. “That the advice has been free, I mean. Few could bear the cost if the ton began to charge for its helpful instructions.”

  Henry’s expression grew self-conscious. “Indeed, yes. Within one minute of entering the ballroom, our hostess recommended several remedies that she swore could not fail to restore my youthful glow.”

  Frances would have laughed if she had not thought he might take it amiss. If there was anything he lacked, it was not a youthful glow. His skin shone the healthy brown of long days spent outdoors, while under the stark cut of his austere black and white clothing, his muscles showed long and lean. No one who really looked at him could think Henry Middlebrook was anything in the common way.

  Her stomach did another little flip, but she managed a calm tone. “Do you plan to take all the advice that has been shoveled upon you?”

  He shifted in his chair, hitching one foot across the other knee. “I could not if I wanted to. I have been advised both to take rest and take exercise, to eat heartily and to starve myself. I am not to closet myself away, nor should I monopolize the attention of the young ladies.”

  A shadow flitted over his light eyes for a second, then the satirical glint returned to them.

  Frances nodded as though this recitation made perfect sense. “You must be the most fortunate man in this ballroom. Not only to be so taxed by the good wishes of caring friends, but then to be able to discard all of their contrary advice without a bit of guilt. I hope you’ve found the evening enjoyable despite the burdens placed upon you.”

  He settled himself more firmly against the back of his chair, considering. “Do you know, I think I have. Will I see you tomorrow at Lady Stratton’s house?”

  “Of course. I’ll be the one flinging advice at people and breaking all the fans. Someone must play that essential role.”

  He studied her through narrowed eyes. She narrowed hers right back, and he grinned, then turned his head toward the couples winding their way through the final patterns of the dance.

  “You would have made a good soldier, Mrs. Whittier,” he said. “I shall be fortunate if you agree to fight on my side.”

  Frances did not pretend to misunderstand. “A word in Caroline’s ear at the right moment? Tell her how fond you are of starving and gorging yourself?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Not that, please. But any and every other inconsequentiality that might be of help. If you don’t mind, of course.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ll be happy to help if I can.”

  “I’m sure Lady Stratton values your opinion.”

  “She might if I dispensed it less freely. But I shall give it to her, for what it’s worth.” She offered him a smile, wishing for a little more of Caroline’s verve.

  “I won’t press you for more than that,” he said. “You’re very generous. Only keep her from forgetting my name, and let me know if she has any particular likes or dislikes. I shall endeavor to do the rest.”

  Forget his name? Surely not. Would he remember hers, though?

  The music came to an end, and the ballroom began to shift in new patterns as a hubbub of voices replaced the tune of the orchestra. Frances caught a glimpse of Lord and Lady Tallant through the swirl of the crowd. They’d be back in less than a minute, all curiosity. What could Hal and Mrs. Whittier have to talk about for so long?

  “Not roses,” Frances said in a rush. “Caroline doesn’t care for roses because they’re so often given. Bring something more unusual when you call.”

  Middlebrook studied her again. “Thank you. I’ll make sure that I do.”

  With Lord and Lady Tallant now almost at his side, he stood and inclined his head, a gesture of farewell that she realized would not draw attention to his injured arm.

  Frances wanted more than a distant nod; she wanted to reach him. Before she thought, her hands stretched out to clasp his—first the left, then the twisted right.

  She had never done such a thing before. Her own body startl
ed her.

  It startled her too that she felt the pressure of his fingers so deeply; they warmed her with a heat nothing like the crush of the summer crowds. His gloved hands were strong within hers.

  He stared at her, his lips parted as if he were about to speak, but the words had melted before they reached the air. She realized her face wore the same expression, and she pressed her mouth into a proper smile and released his fingers.

  “Until tomorrow,” Frances said in a louder tone to cover her bewilderment. Thoughts in a tumult, she looked down at the sensible dark blue crape of her gown as though it required all of her attention.

  She still had no idea what terrified him. And that terrified her a little. In a good way.

  Oh, she was intrigued.

  Three

  Albemarle Street, home to Lady Stratton, was a jostling, vivid lane at the edge of London’s most fashionable residential area. Carts and carriages trundled past, pulled by high-stepping horses that graced the crushed-stone macadam with their droppings. Coal soot powdered the sky, and vivid blooms tumbled from window boxes.

  Henry loved it. He absolutely loved London. Its familiar scents and sights were more precious to him than a masterpiece in tempera paint.

  Though with only one hand, the simple social act of calling on a woman was not so simple as it ought to be. To carry flowers, Henry had to clutch them to his chest as if they were themselves a desirable female. To sound the knocker, he had to set his precious flowers on the ground. Then stand, knock, crouch again, and retrieve the flowers—all, he hoped, before a servant opened the door and caught him scrabbling on the steps. The waiting was the only part of this simple ritual that he could perform as well as anyone else.

  It was rather annoying. Especially since Henry had never enjoyed waiting.

  He had composed himself with his flowers—not roses, as his new ally had forewarned him—by the time the door opened. A butler bowed him in and showed him up to the drawing room, where Henry entered the presence of the dazzling Lady Stratton.

  And ten other people.

  Henry had not expected such a clutter of suitors and opulence. From the outside, Lady Stratton’s narrow Albemarle Street house resembled its neighbors, all sedate stone trim and stucco. Inside, the drawing room was as full of lush blooms as a hothouse, and alive with booted feet and blinking eyes.

  Against the far wall of the Prussian blue–papered room, Lady Stratton held court amidst a bower of roses as big as baby cabbages. A wide bay of windows draped and valanced in fringed brocade framed her, the sooty afternoon light giving her the dreamy look of a sfumato painting. Graceful and otherworldly, a fairy tale princess with hair as fine as spun flax and eyes the color of new grass in spring.

  “Mr. Middlebrook!” Lady Stratton cried, extending her left hand to him. “How wonderful that you have come. I was hoping to see you.”

  “You honor me.” He inclined his head—thank God, he remembered not to bow his greeting—and handed her the flowers. The heavy scent of the roses around her punched him in the nose.

  “Violets! Oh, delightful. I haven’t been given violets in ever so long.” She held them to her nose, her eyes closing as she breathed their faint scent. “How lovely. Thank you very much.”

  Henry noticed Mrs. Whittier sitting in a straight-backed chair tucked into a discreet corner. At Caro’s speech, the companion winked at him, her hazel eyes merry and rebellious in her demure face.

  Henry suppressed a grin. “I’m glad you like them.” He shook Caro’s hand, admiring the ease with which she had accomplished the small social trespass of left hand rather than right.

  With that, his moment at court was over, and he turned to find a seat. Caro was boxed in between the determined forms of Misters Crisp and Hambleton, cousins who often dressed identically for effect. They stared back at Henry with identically set jaws over their leaf-green cravats: Don’t even think about it. Very well—next time he would call earlier, so he might claim a closer seat.

  He found his way to a chair by Bart Crosby, a mild-mannered baronet who had been one of his closest friends before Henry went to war.

  “Hal,” Bart murmured as Henry settled down next to him. “About the ball yesterday. I didn’t know about your…” His dark eyes didn’t meet Henry’s as one of his hands flailed.

  “Don’t give it another thought, Bart.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder in their old reassuring habit. “I’m the same man I always was.”

  The lie was kindly meant, so perhaps Henry could be forgiven it. He wasn’t the same man he had been before Quatre Bras. Four arms, the name meant. The place was a crossroads. Ha. He was only twenty-six; he might live another five or six decades with the damage Quatre Bras had wrought.

  Not that Bart wanted to hear about that. Nor did beautiful Lady Stratton. Nor did Jem, who had never wanted Henry to purchase an army commission in the first place, who had offered him a lordly allowance to remain in England.

  Henry couldn’t bear to be the type of man who stayed home and stayed safe, taking money from his brother. But if he had, at least he’d have been able to take it with both hands. Fist over fist, taking and taking.

  “Would that were so,” Bart said at last in reply to Henry’s assurance. “If you’re the same as ever, we could go out on one of our adventures, just as we did when we were boys. Unless… unless you have had enough adventuring lately?”

  Henry shook his head. “I would not say I have had any adventures at all.”

  He tried to smile, to reassure Bart, who had looked up to the Middlebrook brothers. Bart was the youngest in his family, and his mother and three older sisters had always been brimful of schemes for his betterment. Bart had been more interested in hunting and fishing, muddy boots and windy gallops.

  “But we can certainly remedy that,” Henry added. “I must get to know the city again. You’ll have to be my guide.”

  Bart’s expression turned relieved. “Certainly. I’ve got a new curricle and pair. We’ll take it out sometime, shall we?”

  “If your horses are up to the task,” broke in a new voice. Lord Wadsworth, a viscount with whom Henry’d once had an uneasy nodding acquaintance. Wadsworth had sauntered over unnoticed and perched on the arm of a tapestry-covered chair. “Oh, wait. I forgot. Your mother helped you select them, didn’t she, Crosby? In that case, they must be marvelous.”

  He grinned at Bart, who returned the smile hesitantly. Henry only watched Wadsworth, wondering whether the man meant to be rude or polite. It was always hard to tell with Wadsworth.

  “Lady Crosby has an admirable knowledge of horseflesh,” he finally ventured. “One that her son shares.”

  From the corner of his eye, he could see Bart’s shoulders shift. “Of course,” Wadsworth said blandly, and Bart’s shoulders relaxed.

  The viscount squinted at Henry, his gray eyes bright. “Haven’t seen you for a long time, Middlebrook. You look well. Except for your arm, of course.” He made a tutting sound. “Did a Frenchie do that to you? It must be the very devil to have a coat tailored with your arm like that.”

  His voice was sympathetic, and Henry saw Bart nodding along. But Henry had grown accustomed to looking for weapons, and he considered his reply for a careful second. “I find the tailoring of coats to be a matter of insignificance. You are fortunate indeed if this is all that occupies you, Wadsworth.”

  The viscount slid his feet in an impatient gesture. “Nonsense, Middlebrook. That’s not the only thing on my mind. I merely—well, I know you want to fit in again, and I fear it won’t be easy for you.”

  “How thoughtful you are to fear on my behalf,” Henry said just as sympathetically as Wadsworth had.

  Wadsworth waved a hand. “Simply condoling with you, Middlebrook. I thought you’d have enough fear for two, coming home from war all mangled.”

  His eyes were narrowed, scrutinizing Henry. With his dark hair brushed forward over his forehead, Wadsworth looked vulpine, and Henry remembered why he had always felt uneasy a
round the viscount. Wadsworth always studied people a little too long, a little too closely. His words were barbed, but not so pointed that any injury could be deemed deliberate.

  And maybe it wasn’t deliberate.

  Maybe.

  “As I’ve come home alive and well, I can’t imagine what you mean by mangled,” Henry replied carelessly, leaning back in his chair. It was another spindly gilt contraption, far too frail and feminine to allow him to lean his full weight against it. So he held his abdomen tensed, supporting his weight with his own muscles as he strove to keep his expression bland and calm.

  “If you don’t, I can’t imagine who does. Such a serious injury must positively unman you.” Wadsworth smiled again. “Come now, Middlebrook, we’re all friends here. I’m only offering my… sympathy.”

  If there had been anything warm and friendly in his eyes, as there was in Bart’s, Henry would have believed him. Actually, Bart was looking stricken. Pitying, almost.

  Enough of this. Bart already felt wounded enough on Henry’s behalf. It was time to go on the defensive.

  “And what’s been occupying you during the three years I’ve been away, Wadsworth? Have you made any worthwhile conquests?”

  Wadsworth shrugged and pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Worthwhile? No. Not yet. But I aim to catch Lady Stratton if I have my way about it.” He spun the timepiece, twirling it one way, then the other on its short gold chain. “Want to see something really amusing? Watch this.”

  He winked at his audience, then turned toward the corner of the room. “Mrs. Whittier, could I have a word with you?”

  Henry scanned the room, noting how Caroline still spoke with her bookend dandies; how a plate of sandwiches was handed from man to man, laughter spilling forth at each gesture; how Mrs. Whittier rose from her chair and walked toward them with a companion’s dutifulness and a great lady’s hauteur.

  “Lord Wadsworth.” She inclined her head. “Sir Bartlett. Mr. Middlebrook.”

  “I was just telling my friends,” Wadsworth said, “that I’m pursuing Lady Stratton. Have you any opinion to express?”