“You have no idea what gives me pleasure,” she told him. She had no doubt his attentions were focused on getting her into bed and little more.
“But I’m here to learn,” he said, flashing his heart-stopping grin. “We can begin from the beginning.” He smoothed his cravat and cleared his throat. “Good evening, ma’am. Are you enjoying the party?”
She had to smile. “Tolerably.”
“Tolerably!” He frowned. “What a poor comment on our hostess’s taste. Is it the music? I like a good reel myself, none of this quadrille. Who dances the quadrille anymore? It always brings to mind my grandmother, who was the most accomplished quadrille partner I’ve ever known, although it would have pained me to admit it at age twelve, when she patiently taught me the steps.”
“Perhaps you have forgotten how seductive and romantic a quadrille can be.”
He paused, with a distant expression, then shook his head. “No, I really saw nothing seductive or romantic about it. The fact that I remember my grandmother as my favorite partner proves that.”
“A reel is hardly more so. It allows no time for conversation or intrigue.”
“No,” he agreed with a laugh. “But it’s a rollicking good time, and I like that about a dance. If one wants to talk, it’s better to find a quiet moment to focus all one’s attention on the other person.” His admiring gaze moved over her face again. “Such as now.”
Madeline told herself he was just flirting, but it was hard not to enjoy it. Even though he was distracting her from her object—from her livelihood—she couldn’t bring herself to be cold and withering. “But we have nothing to talk about,” she said gently. “You have no wager, I have no interest in dancing. After we discuss the weather, we’ll have nothing else to say and this quiet moment, as you call it, will grow awkward and tiresome.”
“That’s unfair. How do you know I haven’t got a list of things to discuss with you?” He nodded at her start of surprise. “I learned it early: Never approach a lady without some prepared topic of conversation. It eliminates the risk of that awkward silence. And if things should progress to a more natural and easy conversation, so much the better.”
He was making her want to laugh. “I see. What topics were you prepared to discuss with me, then?”
“Dancing, obviously,” he said. “That bit about my grandmother is absolutely true. She was bent on teaching me proper dances and rapped my knuckles when I tried to dodge the lessons. Once, to punish me, she let my sister watch.” He shook his head, looking grim. “It was a lasting humiliation.” Madeline found herself smiling, and quickly took another sip of champagne. He sighed and gave a shrug. “Do you not dance out of choice, or are you unable?”
She choked. “Unable?”
He nodded seriously. “For all I know, you’ve got a peg leg. That would make it dashed hard to waltz about or skip through a reel.”
“I have not got a peg leg!”
He seemed oblivious to her indignation. “Or perhaps you don’t know how. It’s not a sin. In fact, it’s more likely to be a sin to enjoy dancing, so not knowing might be counted a virtue.” His engaging grin flashed again. “But I wouldn’t know; virtue isn’t my strength.”
She had to cough to cover her laugh this time. “Mr. Bennet. I know very well how to dance, thank you, and I have all my limbs in good health. Choosing not to dance with the scoundrels and rogues who ask me is a perfectly sound decision, and not reflective of virtue or vice.”
“Ah . . . I see. So which am I: scoundrel or rogue?”
“Pardon?” She blinked.
“I asked you to dance and you refused.” He nodded once. “Therefore I must be a scoundrel or a rogue, by your estimation. I was curious to which camp you assigned me.”
“I—” She pressed her lips together. “Rogue.”
His eyes lit up. “Rogue! May I ask how you determined it?”
“Scoundrels are dishonest at heart. Rogues are merely careless of others’ feelings and sensibilities.”
Instead of being offended, he clapped one hand to his chest and gave a great sigh. “I’m so relieved. Scoundrel has such a bad air about it, doesn’t it? Rather like a fellow who would ask a woman to marry him and then not arrive at the church, or some such thing. A rogue, though, sounds very dashing. I imagine he has a splendid pair of horses and drives a smart phaeton around the park, tipping his hat to the ladies—all the ladies, mind you.”
“You seem well informed about the species.” Madeline realized she’d finished her champagne. Pity; she only allowed herself one glass a night, and she barely remembered sipping this one.
He nodded. “I have a great many friends, and most of them are scoundrels or rogues.” He took the empty glass from her hand, neatly switching it with a fresh one on a footman’s tray. He handed it to her without a word. She knew she should protest, but somehow didn’t say anything. “I never quite knew how to categorize them until now, and for that I thank you.”
“I am sure it’s kept you awake at nights.”
“One or two,” he said with a long-suffering expression. “A night of dancing, though, always sends me right to sleep.” Again his sly, coaxing grin. “If you should change your mind about dancing, I would happily oblige.”
She gave him a wry glance. “Perhaps I refused because I simply didn’t wish to dance with you.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” he exclaimed. “I’m a cracking good dancer, I’ll have you know.”
“How could I know that?” She gestured with one hand. “Dance with someone else and I shall see for myself how accomplished you are.”
He leaned a little closer to her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that was a ploy to get rid of me.”
“Ploy?” Madeline opened her eyes very wide. “I thought it was only a shade more subtle than saying, ‘Please go away, Mr. Bennet.’ ”
“Just a shade.” He turned and surveyed the ballroom. “What will it earn me if I dance with someone else? I’ve no real desire of my own to do it, so you must convince me.”
“Surely you can’t wish to remain in this lonely corner with me,” she said lightly. “A handsome gentleman of good fortune who is an excellent dancer? Do not let your talents languish in obscurity, sir.”
He shook his head almost regretfully. “The very fact that you admit I’m handsome makes me want to stay here all the more. Try again.”
She let out a breath of amused frustration, and took a sip of champagne. “You may find someone more interested in your charm.”
“Now I sense a challenge. You think I’m charming.”
Madeline’s gaze narrowed. “Please go away, Mr. Bennet.”
He laughed. “Enough with politeness! Very well. I will go away and dance with every woman here who’ll have me, if only . . .” He propped his arm against the pillar above her head, angling even closer. Madeline took a fortifying breath to keep herself from leaning back, away from the heat and scent of him. “If you let me drive you home tonight.”
“I don’t need—”
He put one fingertip on her lips, stopping her retort. “Who said anything of need? Agree that I shall drive you home tonight, and I’ll leave you in peace the rest of the evening. And before you doubt my intentions, I promise on my grandmother’s memory that I shan’t even think of entering your door. I will see you safely home and go on my way. I’m a rogue, remember, not a scoundrel.” He winked, which combined with the intimate smile on his face to make her knees feel a little weak and her heart skip a beat.
She tried to calm her irrational reaction and think of her own interest. No one would bother her if he escorted her home. If he tried to charm his way inside, Constance would be waiting with the pistol. And it was a short drive to her house from here. She could endure that in exchange for a respite from his overpowering presence for the rest of the evening. “Done,” she said in a low voice.
His eyes darkened. “We have a pact.” He caught her hand and raised it to his lips, barely brushing her knuckles. “Signal me when you are ready to leave. Until then, madam, farewell.” He released her hand and sauntered away without a backward glance.
When he left, the temperature around her seemed to drop several degrees. She told herself that was good, as she’d felt increasingly hot and flustered by his proximity, but she still tipped her glass to her lips and washed down the rest of her champagne. With a mental shake, she put the glass on a nearby table and tried to clear her mind. She had work to do tonight, and so far the evening had been a total loss because of Douglas Bennet.
Well . . . not, perhaps, a total loss. She watched him move among the other guests, chatting easily with men and bringing simpering smiles to the faces of the ladies. After several minutes, he led out the widowed Countess of Farnham. Madeline pressed her lips together; the countess was a beautiful woman, and her blond hair looked very striking next to Mr. Bennet’s auburn head. She caught a glimpse of the woman’s face as they moved through the bagatelle. Lady Farnham was very pleased to be in his arms, and unless Madeline missed her guess very badly, she’d be glad to stay there all night long.
With great effort she looked away. The infamous Mr. B, long a favorite of the ladies of London, she mentally composed. But this night he devoted himself solely to one lady. That would serve him right for walking away so quickly, she thought, and then wondered why she was jealous. She’d told him to walk away.
She tried not to watch him for the next two hours. True to his word, he never came near her. She was only able to glean a few tidbits of gossip—everyone here seemed determined to be wretchedly respectable—but she also noticed that Mr. Bennet danced with six ladies. Three were widows, two were unhappily married, and one was a rather lovely heiress. Madeline hesitated to insert the name of any unmarried lady into her writing without ironclad proof of scandalous behavior, but she was very tempted when she saw Miss Margaret Childress, only child of a wealthy banker, in his arms, smiling with less than her usual coyness.
When Madeline was ready to leave, she raised her hand. Although he was still dancing with Mrs. Powell, a general’s wife with a roving eye, Mr. Bennet gave her a brief nod. At the end of the dance, he escorted his partner from the floor. From where Madeline stood, the lady didn’t seem eager for him to leave her; she maintained her grip on his arm, leaning closer and tilting her head in unmistakable invitation. Her eyelashes fluttered as she spoke to him. And he smiled back at her, laying his hand over hers on his arm.
Well. Surely that released her from their bargain. She wasn’t even sure why she’d considered herself bound by it at all. She’d have done much better to leave while he was distracted by Mrs. Powell’s impressive bosom. Madeline stalked toward the door. She certainly wasn’t going to stand around waiting while he arranged his rendezvous for later. In the hall she asked a servant to bring her cloak, telling herself the pounding of her heart was from relief at the reprieve she’d just been given and not from any lingering desire to hear his footsteps behind her.
“Here we are.” His voice made her jump, and then he was draping her cloak over her shoulders. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
“I wasn’t waiting,” she replied.
“I gave my word.” He put on his hat and gloves. He must have sent the footman running to fetch them so quickly. “As did you.”
She pursed her lips. “I gave my word that you could drive me home. I never vowed to wait for you if you were otherwise engaged when I wished to leave.”
“If you’re trying to wriggle out of it, don’t bother.” He offered his arm. “I’m persistent.”
“That’s not always an admirable quality.”
“No, often not,” he agreed, leading her out to a waiting carriage. “But I was determined to know your judgment on my dancing. Where are we going?”
She hesitated, but there was no dodging it. “Brunswick Square, number eight.”
He told the driver and helped her into the carriage. His hand engulfed hers. Madeline tried to confine herself to a small portion of the seat, but he still seemed to fill the carriage. His arm bumped hers as he sat down; goodness, his shoulders were broad. She shouldn’t have agreed to this. It was easy to brush him off in a crowded, public ballroom. Now there was no way she could avoid the scent of him, the warmth of his body next to hers, or the way he looked at her as the carriage rocked forward.
“Are you impressed?”
She blinked. Had her thoughts been that obvious?
“I danced six times, more than enough to judge my skill.” He gave her a sinful glance. “I am breathlessly awaiting your verdict.”
She took an unsteady breath. “Very accomplished.”
He nodded once in satisfaction. “I told you. It’s very much your loss if you don’t dance with me now.”
Madeline laughed. “It certainly is.”
“So if you haven’t got a peg leg and you admit I’m the finest dancer you’ve ever seen, why do you stand at the back of the room and turn aside my every invitation?”
“You flatter yourself, sir,” she murmured.
“Do I?” He twisted in his seat to look at her more directly. “I saw your face while I waltzed with Lady Farnham. I recognize envy when I see it.”
“Lady Farnham wore a very beautiful gown tonight,” Madeline replied. “I believe every woman there envied her.”
“I hear your fashion is also quite enviable.”
“You don’t seem the sort to care about fashion.”
He lifted one shoulder. Madeline tried not to shiver as it brushed hers again. “I appreciate how a woman looks. It doesn’t depend on what sort of fringe her gown has, though.”
“You underestimate the power of fringe.”
Mr. Bennet laughed. “I doubt it. Although . . .” He delicately touched one of the emerald ribbons on her cloak. “This does make your eyes look very green.”
She looked at him. His entire attention was fixed on her, and even in the dark carriage she felt exposed. “My eyes are brown, not green,” she managed to whisper.
“No, they’re not,” he murmured. He leaned closer, angling his head to peer deep into her eyes . . . or as though he might kiss her. Madeline sat frozen, unable to retreat and somehow not outraged enough to slap his face. “Most of the time they’re brown, but when you laugh or smile, they sparkle with glints of gold and green. I quite like the golden glints.”
“I doubt you can see any of that now.” Her voice was appallingly husky.
Slowly he shook his head. “I don’t need light to see them. I dreamt of them all last night.” Without taking his gaze from her face, he opened the carriage door. “Here we are.”
Madeline’s eyelids closed as he climbed down. She hadn’t even realized the carriage had stopped. She really needed to heed Liam’s warning and stay away from this man. He helped her down and walked her to her door, waiting as she took out her key. “Thank you for escorting me, sir.” On no account was she letting him inveigle an invitation inside, not even for a moment.
But as she braced herself for it, he stepped back and touched the brim of his hat. “It was my pleasure, Mrs. Wilde.” He walked to the carriage without another word. Madeline concentrated on the lock and let herself in. As she was closing the door behind her, she caught one last glimpse of him, still standing and watching, still focused on her with an intensity that left her unsettled.
Oh dear. What had she done?
CHAPTER SIX
Spence found him the following morning at the boxing saloon.
Douglas saw him at the back of the room, leaning on his walking stick and smiling in his smug way. Since he was standing in the ring at the moment, sparring with an opponent, he chose to ignore Spence. There were no bouts in progress, nor any planned for the day, which meant there was precious little to wager on. The
re was a chance Spence would grow bored and leave, and Douglas wouldn’t have to see him for another day. That thought made him realize he’d been unconsciously avoiding Spence while he plotted how he could see Madeline Wilde again and win her over . . . and that thought distracted him enough to take a hard jab in the stomach.
His sparring partner, Sir Philip Albright, stopped short as he doubled over. “Damn, Bennet, did I hurt you?”
He waved one hand as he staggered around the ring, trying to catch his breath. Spence was almost laughing at him now, the blighter. “Not a bit. My fault. Again?” He threw himself back into the bout and refocused his attention on the pressing matter at hand, namely beating Albright for landing a blow that would hurt like the devil tomorrow.
Afterward he beat a retreat to the changing room, where he knew a dandy like Spence wouldn’t follow. He took his time washing up and getting dressed, trying not to think about why he wasn’t simply facing down the man. He didn’t owe Spence anything; he had nothing to fear. In fact, now he was better informed than before, which ought to lend him an advantage in the confrontation.
Douglas scowled at the mirror as he knotted his cravat roughly. He didn’t like Spence anymore. Had he ever, really? Spence was always willing to lend a mate some blunt, and he was always up for a night in the gaming hells or brothels. But Douglas knew what Spence wanted to discuss, and he wasn’t in the mood. The truth was, he was beginning to like Mrs. Wilde. If she was really Lady Constance, he wanted to know—but for himself, not for some bloody bounty.
All's Fair in Love and Scandal Page 4
