Tessa had learned the hard way to be wary of very attractive men. They often thought it counted for too much, and in her experience, a handsome man was not a man to be trusted. And this man, who not only had the face of a minor deity but an earldom and, from the looks of his clothing, a substantial income, was nearly everything she had come to mistrust and dislike. That was all without considering how he had inconvenienced her, however unknowingly. Together, it pushed her strained temper to the breaking point. She arched her brows critically and murmured to Eugenie, “He looks indolent to me.”
Here the earl committed his second grievous offense. He was several feet away from her, with Mr. Lucas hovering beside him and a servant—probably his valet—trailing close behind, and yet when she spoke the peevish words in a hushed whisper, Lord Gresham paused. When his head came up and he turned to look directly at her with startling dark eyes, Tessa knew, with a wincing certainty, that he had heard her.
Eugenie sucked in her breath with a long, whistling wheeze. She sank into a deep curtsey, dragging Tessa down with her. Chagrined at being so careless, Tessa ducked her head and obediently curtseyed. She fervently wished she had arrived half an hour earlier, so she and Eugenie could have been comfortably ensconced in their rooms before he appeared. Now she would have to be very certain she never ran into the earl again; if he remembered her face, or heaven forbid, learned her name and connected her to Louise, her sister would quite possibly murder her.
For a moment the earl just looked at her, his gaze somehow piercing, even though she still thought he looked like a languid, lazy sort. Then, incredibly, one corner of his mouth twitched and a sinful smile slowly spread over his face, as if he knew every disdainful thought she’d had about him, and was amused—or even challenged—by them. Tessa could hear Eugenie gasping for air beside her, and she could feel the heat of the blood rushing to her cheeks, but she couldn’t look away. Still smiling in that enigmatic, wicked way, Lord Gresham bowed his head to her, and then finally—finally—walked away.
“Oh, my,” moaned Eugenie. Her fingers still dug into Tessa’s arm, and it took some effort to pry her off and lead her to a chair in the corner. “Oh, my . . .”
“I’m sorry,” said Tessa, abashed. “I never dreamed he would overhear; I was wrong to say it out loud. But Eugenie, he won’t remember. Or if he does, it will be some amusing story he tells his friends about the shrewish lady at the York Hotel.”
“What if we see him again?” whispered Eugenie in anguish. “He might remember, Tessa, he might! And your sister, so hopeful about her new life in London! He’s quite an established member of the haut ton; he could ruin her!”
“I will hide my face if he approaches,” she promised. “You know I would never deliberately upset Louise—and you shouldn’t either. Telling her about this will only send her into a spell and cause her to worry needlessly.” It would also unleash a flurry of letters to Tessa, full of despair and blame. She prayed Eugenie wouldn’t set her sister off. “And really, I am very sorry. It was badly done of me, and I won’t make the same mistake again.” She did so hate it when her temper got away from her, and this time it could leave Eugenie on the verge of a fainting fit for the duration of their stay in Bath. Seen in that light, the coming week seemed endless, and she applied herself to reassuring her companion.
Once the earl’s retinue had proceeded up the stairs, someone finally remembered them and came to conduct them to their rooms. Tessa helped Eugenie up the stairs, still patting her hand as the porter led them to a lovely suite and carried in their luggage. When she finally coaxed Eugenie to lie down with a cool cloth on her forehead, her first instinct was to leave. She could slip out of the room and soothe her cross mood with a short walk before dinner. If she happened across a new novel or delicious confection on Milsom Street, so much the better. Eugenie would be immensely cheered by a small gift, and a novel would keep her occupied for several days. Tessa hadn’t wanted anyone other than Mary, her maid, to come with her, and already she was chafing at Eugenie’s presence.
She pulled the door of the bedroom gently closed and quietly crossed the sitting room. “I’m going out for a walk,” she told Mary softly, throwing her shawl around her shoulders and picking up her reticule. “See to Mrs. Bates; she’ll likely have a headache.” Eugenie was very prone to having headaches when she heard Tessa had done something she disapproved of. Mary might as well be forewarned to have her favored remedy, a good bottle of sherry, at hand.
Some instinct made her pause at the door. Instead of just leaving, she opened it a few inches and took a quick look out. The first person she saw was Mr. Lucas, the hotelier. The second person was the Earl of Gresham. He had shed his long overcoat and hat by now, displaying a figure that didn’t look the slightest bit soft or lazy. His dark hair fell in tempting waves to his collar, and somehow up close he didn’t look like a languid fop at all. Tessa froze, hoping to remain invisible by virtue of holding very, very still. Mindful of her recent promise to Eugenie, she all but held her breath as the men came nearer, just a few feet away from her door. Her prayers seemed to be answered as they passed without looking her way, but only for a moment. When she cautiously inched the door open a bit more and peered around it to see that they were gone, she beheld a door only a few feet down the corridor—almost opposite her own—standing open, with Mr. Lucas ushering the odiously keen-eared earl through it.
Tessa closed the door without a sound. Well. This was a dilemma. How could she leave her rooms if he might be passing in the corridor at any moment? She could ask for a new suite, perhaps, in another part of the hotel, but that would be a terrible bother. On the other hand, having to sneak in and out of her own hotel room was the height of inconvenience. What was she to do now?
She shook her head at her own dithering. “Mary, did you bring a veil?” she asked her maid, who was bustling about the room unpacking the valises.
“Yes, ma’am.” Mary produced the veil, draping it over her bonnet, and Tessa picked up her parasol as well. She would not be held prisoner in her own room, but neither did she want to break her promise to Eugenie so soon. Not that he was bound to recognize her, even if he did see her. Eugenie was worried over nothing. She was well beneath the notice of any earl, particularly a vain, arrogant one. On her guard this time, she let herself out of the room and safely escaped the hotel.
Charles de Lacey, Earl of Gresham, was having a hard time ridding himself of Mr. Lucas, the smooth and somewhat oily hotel proprietor. He had no objection to being personally greeted nor to being shown to his rooms, and then to a larger, better suite when the first was unacceptable. But then he wanted the man to leave, and instead Mr. Lucas stayed, blathering on about his hotel’s service. Mostly, Charlie was tired and longed to prop up his stiff leg, nearly healed by now though still ungainly, but Mr. Lucas was undeniably annoying as well.
“Yes, that will be all,” he said at last, resorting to a lofty, bored voice. “Thank you, Mr. Lucas.” He motioned to Barnes, his valet, who obediently whisked the obsequious hotelier out the door.
“Fetch something to eat, Barnes.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Without being asked, Barnes offered the cane he had just removed from the trunk. With a grimace, Charlie took it, inhaling deeply as he shifted his weight off the injured limb. He was trying to wean himself off the cane, but by evening it was still welcome, much to his disgust. He hobbled about the room before settling himself in the chair by the window overlooking George Street.
When Barnes had arranged a tray of sandwiches and a bottle of claret on a nearby table, Charlie dismissed him and leaned back in his chair, foot propped on a stool. He had made it to Bath. What now? His brother Gerard was in some sort of trouble, and Edward, shockingly, had refused to come to his aid. It wasn’t even the most serious problem Edward had handed him recently, but this one Charlie felt he might be able to address. The other problem, the one that conjured a red haze of fury every time he thought of it, reposed in the leather d
ispatch case on the writing desk across the room. Inside were all the documents and correspondence left by his father, the investigators, and the solicitors relating to that damned Durham Dilemma, as the wags in London had dubbed the disaster. Charlie didn’t want to look at it. He’d forced himself to bring it along to Bath, but just thinking about it left him angry at his father, irked at his brother, and deeply, privately, alarmed that his entire life now hung by a thread.
He let his head drop back against the chair and closed his eyes. How ironic that the first time anyone expected great things of him, the stakes were so high. He hoped Gerard’s problem would be easier to address than the question of how to prove himself Durham’s legitimate heir. Right now he didn’t want to think of anything beyond his dinner and the glass of wine in his hand. If the lady from downstairs could see him now, she would surely think him the most indolent, useless fellow on earth.
A smile touched his lips, picturing her defiant expression when she realized he’d heard her disdainful remark. She was sorry he’d overheard, but not sorry at all for saying it. What a prudish bit of skirt. No doubt she had a collection of prayer books and doted on her brood of small dogs. Charlie was accustomed to people making up their minds about him before they ever met him, but for some reason she amused him. It was always so unfortunate when a woman with a mouth like hers turned out to be a judgmental harridan. In fact, if she looked less cross, he might have even said she was attractive, but it was hard to call any woman a beauty when she was looking down her nose at him. He wondered if she’d formed her opinion of him from the London gossip sheets or if his infamy had preceded him to Bath.
He raised his glass in a silent toast to her. For tonight at least he would be indolent and damned happily. And he hoped the thought rankled her deeply.
About the Author
CAROLINE LINDEN earned a math degree from Harvard before turning to fiction. Ten years, nine books, two Red Sox championships, and one dog later, she has never been happier with her decision. Please visit her online at www.carolinelinden.com.
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By Caroline Linden
Blame It on Bath
One Night in London
I Love the Earl
You Only Love Once
For Your Arms Only
A View to a Kiss
A Rake’s Guide to Seduction
What a Rogue Desires
What a Gentleman Wants
What a Woman Needs
Coming Soon
The Way to a Duke’s Heart
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from The Way to a Duke’s Heart copyright © 2012 by P.F. Belsley
BLAME IT ON BATH. Copyright © 2012 by P.F. Belsley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition MARCH 2012 ISBN: 9780062096401
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062025333
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