by Lynn Kerstan
With a firm handshake and a distinctly forced smile, Mark escorted the Marquess to the door before settling in to review the parade of swains. It was worse than he could have imagined. The men were uniformly chicken-witted, and if they hadn’t kept intoning “Miss Lamb” and her virtues with the reverence of Gregorian chant, he’d have sworn they were courting someone else. At one o’clock he took a break for luncheon, dispatching a cold collation to the parlor but reserving the brandy for himself. He also sent a footman to Margaret’s house, begging off hours too late from his meeting with Jillian and instructing her to be ready at five o’clock for a drive in Hyde Park.
Her reply was delivered just after he rid himself of Mr. Farquhar, a rich, rosy-cheeked nincompoop with shirt points to his eyebrows. Farquhar scampered away with a fatuous grin on his face, the sixth man to receive dispensation to propose to that wolfling in lamb’s clothing. No doubt the lot of them were camped in her parlor, or perhaps she’d already accepted one of them. Malory.
Irrationally displeased with that notion; he ripped open the envelope and saw at once that Jillian the Shrew was holding true to form where he was concerned.
Your Lordship, the note said in her clean, bold handwriting. Is five o’clock the proper hour for a morning call? Alas, my country manners! Nevertheless, I dutifully await your pleasure, as I have done these several weeks. If handwriting could be belligerent, her signature was a declaration of war: Unwilling Ward of the Earl of Coltrane, Miss Jillian Theodosia Lamb.
A bark of laughter escaped him even as his fingers itched to strangle the Unwilling Ward and every one of the nine men who’d commandeered five of the most unpleasant hours he’d ever spent. His sense of injustice grew as he dressed in a blue frock coat and doeskin breeches, and he was not mollified by the perfect cravat arranged by a widely grinning Foxworth.
By the time Mark Delacourt turned his curricle into Grosvenor Square, his rigidly disciplined, invariably cool temper had soared to a rolling boil.
Chapter Eighteen
EVERY TIME THE knocker sounded, as it did frequently throughout the day, Jillian tensed and then fumed. Ivor Malory came first, turned away with the excuse of a headache, and the gentlemen who followed on his heels were similarly dispatched. Where was her accursed guardian? She’d promised to be alone when he arrived and she wanted to be, for their meeting could determine her whole future. If only he’d said something last night . . . given her some clue what he’d learned on his visit to Choppings Downs.
All night she’d lain awake considering the way he’d greeted her at Lady Lieven’s ball, analyzing every word and facial expression—what few there ever were with the Earl—trying to figure out what was going through his secretive mind. Wondering if he knew but sure he did not, wondering if he suspected and afraid he did, sometimes certain he was toying with her before swinging the axe.
Had the servants managed to hide everything? Did her message reach them in time? Surely he wouldn’t have been, so charming, almost friendly, if he knew. Jillian finally decided he did not. Even Mark Delacourt, who concealed every vestige of natural emotion—assuming he felt any such thing—could not have maintained that suave demeanor if he knew. No, her secret was safe for the moment, not that it helped very much. If he didn’t let her go home, she was no better off.
All the long hours, from rising at dawn through the interminable day, through changing from “proper morning dress” to “proper go-driving-in-Hyde-Park dress” and the constant battle to subdue her recalcitrant hair and more unruly temper, Jillian fretted and paced. She was a lit firecracker with a short fuse when the Earl was finally announced.
“Tell His Lordship,” she instructed the footman imperiously, “that I shall join him shortly.” Let him cool his heels, she thought, stuffing a second éclair from the tea tray into her mouth. After washing her teeth with soda water, she sat on the edge of her bed until she thought he’d waited long enough, and then she took up the frilly parasol that matched her primrose dress and russet spencer, looped a beaded reticule over her wrist, and arched primly down the circular staircase.
Her guardian waited in the foyer, slapping his gloves rhythmically against long muscular thighs. Jillian sculpted her lips into a queenly smile and descended with insolent deliberation. The air between them sparked with the white heat of tempers held barely in check.
“Miss Lamb,” gritted the Earl with a curt bow.
“My Lord,” she murmured, curtseying too low for credibility.
“Shall I wish you happy?” he asked coldly.
Confused at that, Jillian shrugged and took his arm. “I am generally happy,” she said, “unless you’ve come to make me otherwise.”
Bewildered at her failure to mention the swarm of suitors, Mark led her outside to his curricle and assisted her onto the narrow bench. When he’d settled next to her, uncomfortably aware of his thigh pressing against her warm leg, he chucked the chestnuts into a slow trot.
“You’ve accepted none of them?” he quizzed, breaking a tense silence that endured for several blocks.
“None of whom? Hell’s bells, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t swear,” Miss Lamb.” He steered the horses to the Side of the road and reined to a halt just outside Stanhope Gate. “Has no one called this morning?”
“Certainly not my punctilious guardian,” she flared. “I was dressed and ready by ten in case you came early, and yes, there were other callers, but I sent them away because you said you wanted to see me alone. I got your message about one o’clock, had lunch, and have been waiting ever since. All in all, it’s been a lovely day, thank you very much. So what has sent you into the boughs? It can’t have been anything I’ve done, because the only thing I’ve done is change clothes twice and wait for you.”
“My apologies,” he snorted. “I’ve changed twice, too, and spent the rest of the day receiving requests for your hand in marriage. Nine, to be exact, six of which I’ve accepted.”
Dead silence greeted his announcement. He glanced sideways to see wide, astonished eyes and a gaping mouth. “Yes, six,” he repeated dryly. “Are we to quarrel about the other three?”
“Isn’t that b—bigamy?” she faltered.
“Two is bigamy. Six is something I don’t know a word for. I expected them all to beat a path to your door and hoped you’d have an answer for me by now. Don’t tell me you spoke with none of them. Even Ivor Malory?” The Earl heard jealousy in his voice and it made him all the more resentful. “Apparently, he has spent a great deal of time alone with you.”
“No. Yes. Some.” Jillian opened and closed her parasol with each word, until Mark seized it irritably and tossed it under the bench. “But not today,” she murmured. “Nobody today. I’ve just been waiting for you.”
Little liar. There wasn’t a female alive who wouldn’t be fully aware of nine men come to scratch. She was trifling with him. “You admitted none of them?” he demanded.
“I admit nothing at all, except waiting for hours.” A wholly feminine blush stained her cheeks. “Do you mean it?” she asked in a voice that squeaked with delight. “Six men asked permission to marry me? Really?”
“Nine,” he corrected. “Gilmore is a drunkard, Rotherham a widower with a pack of brats, and Kelton a fortune hunter. The rest are acceptable, if you choose to accept.”
“Well, hot damn!”
“Miss Lamb!”
“I can’t believe it.” She squirmed with glee, and Mark felt it to the roots of his hair. “Nine men want to marry me. Who’d have thought it?”
“Not I,” he said harshly. “Nor can I believe this display of—of unworldliness. From what I understand, at least one of your suitors has already made physical advances.”
“Tried to kiss me?” she clarified, giggling. “Make that at least . . . no, never mind. But so what? Tried to kiss doesn’t mean kissing, and no one
has successfully forced anything on me I didn’t want, so you needn’t oil up your guns or whatever it is you guardians do when defending a lady’s honor.”
“Have you any to defend?” he asked brutally.
Jillian went stark white.
“Take me home,” she whispered shakily, her eyes fixed straight ahead. “Now. Please.”
Mark reached to her and let his hand drop to his thigh when she flinched. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “This has been a long, trying day, Miss Lamb. I’ve no right to take it out on you, and none at all to say such a horrible thing.”
“Why are you so unkind to me?” she asked in a quavering voice. “Truly, since you left, the only thing I’ve done is try to please you. I’ve let myself be primped and pawed and rigged out for every possible occasion. I’ve danced until I thought my toes would fall off from being stepped on. I’ve gone to places nobody should be made to go, and listened to singers who can’t hold a tune and girls who ought to be strung through their own harps. I’ve choked on stale cake at Almack’s and quadrilled across every important ballroom in London. My hair has been crimped in hot irons until I was sure I’d wind up bald as a billiard ball. I’ve laughed at bad jokes and flattered every popinjay that ever thought cherry-red a good color for a waistcoat. Dash it, Mark Delacourt, I’ve done every debutante thing a debutante is supposed to do and hated every minute of it. Mostly, anyway, because some parts were nice, but I hated nearly all of it. I wanted so much to please you and show you I was willing to try, but now, without giving me one chance to say anything, you’ve already decided what I am and what I’ve done and made up your mind what I ought to do, just like you did before. There is no pleasing you. Nothing makes you happy. Nothing is good enough for you, and most certainly not I. God, please, just please, wash your hands of me and let me go home where I belong.” With fingers cold as ice, the Earl took up the reins again. “I will decide where you belong,” he said curtly. “And you mistake me. I do not mean to be critical of what you have accomplished. I am, shall we say, amazed. I’d not expected you to storm the town like Hannibal and his elephants. You are, Miss Lamb, the Toast of London, and I am very proud of you.”
He didn’t sound proud. He sounded angry and resentful, and they both heard it in his voice.
Jillian was surprised to receive even a grudging compliment from the man and more astonished at her own giddy reaction. Fluttery things teased at her throat. Warm things curled up inside her. She glanced at him in confusion and turned away immediately. He looked unhappy, and she didn’t like seeing him that way. She wanted him to smile again, the way he’d smiled at her last night.
She plucked at his sleeve. “I’m amazed, too, you know,” she told him candidly. “I fully expected to be the best-dressed wallflower in London, but everyone has been very kind.”
“Mmmmph” was his only reply, and Jillian gave it up. If the man had moods, which she’d no reason to think, he was in one of them now. Her brief pleasure at his compliment evaporated.
Schooling her posture to a fair imitation of his, she folded her hands in her lap and gazed indifferently at passersby while her mind worked furiously. How dare he bring her to this public place when he knew she wanted to talk to him alone! She’d been to Hyde Park often in curricles and gigs and once in a towering high-perch phaeton that made her feel, for the first time, tall, but this spring afternoon was exceptionally lovely and it seemed as if every fashion plate in London had turned out for the ritual promenade. Those who’d chosen to stroll were moving along more quickly than the vehicles, and nearly every eye turned in their direction and held for long moments until the press of traffic moved them on. That had never happened before, at least not to such an extent. It must be the Earl.
She stole a look at him from under her lashes. He was certainly the height of elegance in his dark blue coat, doeskin inexpressible, and starched shirt-points. Some of her new friends, at least the younger ones, waxed eloquent on the subject of a properly tied cravat, and she’d giggled one afternoon over a copy of Neckclothitania, a gift from Ivor Malory when she’d asked him what all the fuss was about. The Earl’s neckcloth was a masterpiece, and she studied it carefully. Later, she’d find a picture of it in the pamphlet and see what it was called.
His expression was the cool, politely impassive one she’d come to loathe, although he nodded at acquaintances and once even smiled, however briefly, at an elderly gentleman. Probably his best friend, she thought with scorn. Mark Delacourt could walk through a rainstorm and not get wet. No wind would ruffle his perfectly coiffed hair, nor would any mud dare soil his gleaming boots. She had mirrors that reflected less brilliantly than those boots.
“Let me know, Miss Lamb,” he said grimly, “if we pass anyone you wish to stop and greet. You may have noticed that we attract some little attention, and it would do well for you to smile and appear to be enjoying yourself.”
“I’ve heard that speech,” she retorted. “Last night when you danced with me. And I expect they are all looking at you, My Lord, so you would do well to heed your own advice.”
“Why do you imagine they are looking at me?” he asked curiously.
“Because you are so splendid, of course.” She gazed at him with unconcealed admiration. “All the men want to look like you and dress like you and drive a bang-up team of nags like these gorgeous chestnuts. And all the women want to be sitting here next to you.”
Mark felt unaccustomedly warm under his collar. No wonder men were lined up to propose if she flattered them like that. She even managed to sound sincere. “Don’t use cant, Miss Lamb,” he chided.
“Cant. Can’t. Do not. Don’t. Sit.-Be quiet. Hush up. Smile, Miss Lamb. Look pleasant, Miss Lamb. Clean yourself up and try to be civilized, Miss Lamb.”
He turned slightly, favoring her with the down-his-long-aristocratic-nose look that always made her want to kick him.
“Just practicing,” she informed him blithely. “Making sure I never forget a single word. How many farm girls have the good fortune to be schooled by a Paragon of Propriety?”
“Brat,” he said coolly. The chit infuriated him, when she didn’t make him laugh. Not that he ever really did, because it wouldn’t do for her to think such behavior was remotely amusing, but it was damnably hard to keep a straight face when the corners of her mouth turned up in that impish way just before she stuck the needle in.
“Pompous toad,” she said in the exact tone of voice he’d used for brat.
Biting his lip, he edged the curricle past a clutch of riders and suddenly groaned. “Oh, no,” he muttered, and Jillian looked up to see a frown on his face. It vanished as quickly as it came, and a remote half-smile etched his lips. “For God’s sake, Miss Lamb, keep your mouth shut and let’s get through this as painlessly as we can.”
“Get through what?”
“Lady Bixford is about twenty yards ahead of us, and she’ll throw herself under the wheels before letting us pass without a word. Make that a great many words, every one of them dipped in curare. Have you met her?”
Jillian peered ahead, and there was no mistaking the woman he meant. A short, formidable-looking female with the torso of an overfed pigeon appeared ready to leap into their path, flanked by two equally unlovely companions, one a skinny, angular creature who resembled a long-legged spider and the other a dumpy woman with pursed lips and pudgy cheeks. All three were dressed with lavish expenditure and no taste whatsoever, not that a sense of fashion could have helped any one of them. They had, Jillian saw at once, ugly souls to match their unattractive faces and malicious, predatory expressions. “I don’t believe so,” she said thoughtfully, “although the name Bixford rings a bell.”
“One of hell’s bells, no doubt.”
Jillian swung around with a startled look. Had he just made a joke?
“Those harpies are the worst gossips in London,” he continued b
etween his, teeth. “Bad ton, but accepted too many places because no scandal escapes their ears and tongues. Margaret stays out of their way, as do I, and she’d not have presented you to them. I expect they feel excluded from your astonishing success and are looking for blood.”
“Well, you are perfectly safe, My Lord,” Jillian assured him. “No scandal could possibly be associated with your impeccable behavior.”
The barouche they were following slowed while its passengers chatted with friends on horseback, and Mark took the opportunity to acquaint Miss Lamb with a few home truths he’d thought unnecessary to mention until now. “Your bivouac on my doorstep did not go wholly unremarked,” he informed her tersely. “Fortunately, you were so disreputable-looking that no one could be sure who, or what, was there. I was compelled to invent a derelict beggar claiming distant relationship and hoping for a handout.”
“Not a soul, my Lord Earl, would believe that you could be related to a derelict of any sort, however distant,” Jillian parried wickedly.
“I said it was the nephew of a servant,” he snapped. The dimple flashed. “Jaspers, of course. He’s bound to have kinfolk who would sit out in the rain for hours. And he’d leave them there, too,” she added pointedly.
“Miss Lamb, you are incorrigible,” he said with a smile, although she suspected he’d dredged it up only to disarm the three snipers lurking ahead. “And I do not enjoy telling lies.”
“Gentlemen never lie,” she agreed piously. “Shall we give them the real story? It would make their day.”
“Don’t you dare,” he groaned. “I want you to look as pleasantly vacuous as possible. I’ll do all the talking.”
“What else is new?” She watched him check the restive horses with a light, masterful flick of the reins and sensed the leashed power in his hands. She was suddenly very aware of him, of herself sitting practically in his lap on the narrow bench, of the long, hard leg pressing against her own. Vague illicit thoughts feathered the edges of her mind. Scandalous thoughts.
