“However—” she pinned him with a firm look “—I will confess nothing else nor will I say anything more about my past until you tell me what you know about me.”
“Everything?” He took another sip and studied her over the rim of his glass.
“Down to the most insignificant detail.”
“Very well.” He thought for a moment. “You married Viscount Bascombe at the start of your first season, eloping with him, I believe.”
“In one’s youth, one never imagines one day looking back on those actions that seemed so exciting at the time and wondering exactly what one was thinking.” While she’d like to believe she wouldn’t make the same mistake again if given the chance, she couldn’t be at all sure of that. George had been exceptionally charming. “Still, as I said, regret is pointless and we did have a good time of it.”
“You and he were quite the couple,” Dante said in an altogether too nondescript tone. Why, one couldn’t tell if the man was disapproving or envious. “Outrageous more than truly scandalous I would say. Lord and Lady Bascombe were notably present at every soiree, every party, every gathering, at least those that were not considered eminently proper and endlessly stuffy. The events that provided the most fodder for rumor and gossip I would say.”
“You would be surprised how very many of those there are.” She sipped her champagne. “They really are the most enjoyable kind of party.”
“No doubt.” He considered her for a moment. “Your friends were similar—young couples with more money than responsibility, sons who had not yet come into inheritances, the occasional free-spirited widow. There are any number of stories about that circle.”
“All true I suspect but probably better in the telling and retelling than in the truth of them. Still, a good story always improves with repetition. Go on.”
“There’s really little else to say.” He shrugged. “You’re quite lovely and are known to be a clever wit.”
“True.” She grinned and took another sip. This was certainly outstanding champagne and it had been a very long time since she’d had champagne at all.
“Your husband died a little over two years ago—my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“And you’ve scarcely been seen in public since then, spending much of that time residing away from London.”
“Yes, well, I am a widow.” The excuse sounded weak even to her. “Is that it, then?”
“I believe so.”
“You should have saved your money. All of that is common knowledge. I would have told you everything myself if you’d asked.”
“I shall remember that the next time I need to look into someone’s past.”
“It doesn’t seem at all fair though.” She studied him curiously. “Regardless of how you came by your information, you know far more about me than I do about you. I know hardly anything about you.”
“I believe I have already told you that my life is an open book.” He propped his hip on the balcony railing and studied her. “What do you want to know?”
“I’m not sure where to begin with a book I haven’t so much as heard about—good or bad. And I’ve heard nothing about you whatsoever. Which makes me think your reputation must be exemplary.”
“One doesn’t like to brag.”
She laughed.
“There really is little to tell. Aside from my various business pursuits—successful pursuits I might add—”
“But one doesn’t like to brag.”
“—I am currently head of my grandfather’s museum. I studied art nearly as eagerly as I did finance.” He paused. “I’ve never explained my life before. It does sound rather boring, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all. Or at least not yet. I’m assuming there’s more.”
He winced. “Not substantially more.”
“Oh, surely there must be. Some sort of youthful prank or misadventure? An indiscretion perhaps?”
He shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind.”
She thought for a moment. “Have you never jumped in a fountain fully clothed? Or worse—not fully clothed?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“And I imagine you would recall that. Well then, have you never raced at high speed through Hyde Park in the midst of the afternoon promenade on horseback or—better yet—a penny-farthing?”
He stared in confusion. “A what?”
“A penny-farthing. Surely you’ve seen one? A bicycle with a high front wheel? They were quite popular a few years ago.”
“Yes, of course.” He nodded with obvious relief. What did he think a penny-farthing was? One did wonder what was going on in the man’s head. “I have seen them but I have never ridden one through Hyde Park or anywhere else. Nor have I raced through the park on horseback. That would be most—”
“Improper?”
“And dangerous,” he said firmly.
“Of course it is, Dante. The risk—be it of gossip or physical harm—is part of the adventure. That’s precisely the idea.”
“As much as I do hate to disappoint you, I’ve never done anything improper, I’ve never been embroiled in any kind of scandal and the most dangerous thing I do is slit the pages of a new book with a paper knife.” He paused. “Which has never bothered me at all until this very moment.”
“Come now, Dante. Surely that isn’t everything? You are both charming and handsome. And wealthy. I can’t believe that hasn’t landed you in some sort of trouble at some point.”
“I do apologize. I’m afraid not.”
“Your family, then? No scandalous black sheep wandering about?”
He shook his head. “My sister would never permit it.”
“No mad relatives hidden in the attic?”
“Fortunately, no.”
“How very interesting.” She shook her head. “I had an entirely different impression of you when we first met.” Indeed, she’d thought he was very much like every other attractive, irresponsible man she’d ever met.
“And what do you think now?”
“I think no one can possibly be this perfect.” She narrowed her eyes and studied him.
“Again my apologies.” In spite of his words, his eyes twinkled with laughter. “I would imagine my grandfather might have had a few scandalous moments.”
“The collector?”
He nodded. “According to family gossip as well as his private journals, the Marquess of Haverstead was quite a rake in his day. The previous marquess, of course, not my uncle. Although Uncle Richard as well as my father might have had a few misadventures in their younger days.”
Something struck a chord of recognition. “Your uncle is the Marquess of Haverstead?”
He nodded.
She stared for a moment then gasped. “I have heard of you! You’re the nephew of the Marquess of Haverstead!”
“I believe I just said that.”
Now she remembered the story. According to gossip, Juliet Pauling had led some poor man around by the nose in an effort to make a duke’s son jealous. The duke’s heir was a nasty, arrogant sort with thinning hair and an exceptionally large nose. Of course, he was outrageously wealthy and would be a duke one day, which apparently made up for the lack of hair and abundance of nose. At least to Miss Pauling. They deserved each other. Willie had crossed paths with her on more than one occasion and had rarely met a woman quite as merciless in her ambitions. Woe be it to anyone who stood in her way.
Rumor had it that the man she had treated so callously had been quite taken with her. But then it wouldn’t have been as good a story if he hadn’t. Regardless, no decent man—especially not this man—deserved to be publically humiliated. And he certainly wouldn’t wish to be reminded of it. Nor should he be. She said the first thing that popped into her head. “You nau
ghty man. Not that I would blame you.”
“What?” He stared in obvious confusion.
“You very nearly left her at the altar, from what I heard.” That wasn’t at all what she had heard but she didn’t have it in her heart to tell Dante the truth. Better to tell him a version where he didn’t look quite so used.
He stared. “Do I strike you as the type of man who would do that?”
“Any man is the type of man who would do that.”
“I would never—”
“What you strike me as is the type of man who would be smart enough to realize he was making a terrible mistake before he made it.”
“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “That’s quite kind of you but I’m afraid what you heard is not entirely accurate. We were nowhere near the altar, I never asked for her hand, and she broke it off with me. Of course, she was newly engaged to someone else at the time so it was perhaps for the best.”
“Good Lord, you are painfully honest, aren’t you?”
“I do try.”
“I would say you have the better of the deal.” She raised her glass to him. “Miss Pauling is a, oh, a work of...of poorly executed art shall we say.”
“She’s quite lovely.” It was a half-hearted defense at best.
“One cannot fault her appearance.” Willie took another sip. The very fact that he was unwilling to say anything bad about the woman who had treated him so callously was a point in his favor. “You really are extraordinarily nice.”
He grinned. “I believe I’ve mentioned that.”
“I was right. I do like you.”
“I knew you would.”
“And I could certainly use a friend at the moment. I seem to be sorely lacking in friends.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I do too as I had thought I had a great number of friends. Apparently, they were more my husband’s friends than mine.” She shivered.
“My apologies,” he said and straightened. “It’s far cooler out here than I thought. We should go in.”
“Probably but the view is well worth it.” She turned away, stepped to the railing and gazed out over the city. “I never imagined I’d be in Paris at all, let alone in a hotel room with a dashing stranger by my side.”
“It is impressive.” He moved closer behind her. “But you’re cold. We really should go inside.”
She turned to face him. He was a scant few inches away. Close enough to lean in and kiss her if he so desired. Did he? “Do you intend to seduce me tonight, Mr. Montague?”
He hesitated for no more than a fraction of a second but it was enough. “No, of course not.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” He frowned. “I would certainly know if I had intended seduction or not.”
“Then perhaps I am using the wrong word. Rather than intend seduction, did you hope for it?”
“I assure you, Willie—” indignation rang in his voice “—seduction tonight has not so much as crossed my mind.”
He was lying; she was fairly certain of it. His indignation was entirely too emphatic.
“I’m not sure if I’m relieved or rather disappointed.” She cast him a wicked look and moved back into the room.
He closed the balcony doors. “I must admit I prefer disappointment.”
“Why?” She wandered toward the table.
“Surely you know the answer to that. You are an intriguing woman, quite lovely and clever. A man would have to be dead not to be entranced by you.”
“And are you entranced?”
“Completely and thoroughly captivated.”
“You do have a way with words, Dante.” She nodded at the table. “You realize this is a remarkably romantic setting.”
“Or simply dinner.”
“Have you ever been engaged in seduction before?”
“Not really.”
She glanced at him. “But you’re not without, oh, experience? When it comes to women?”
“Good Lord, Willie.” He chuckled. “I’m not sure exactly what you’re trying to find out but I can assure you I have been with women before.”
“And yet while you admit you’d rather I be disappointed at your lack of intent to seduce me instead of relieved, you have no desire to seduce me?”
“That’s not at all what I said,” he said firmly. “I said I did not intend to seduce you tonight.”
She set her glass down on the table and met his gaze directly. The oddest sense of anticipation and what might well have been desire welled within her. Her heart beat faster. “When do you intend to seduce me?”
“Willie, I—”
She held up her hand to stop him. “In spite of what your investigator might have reported or what might have been said through gossip and innuendo, I have only ever been seduced once. And that was by my husband on our wedding night.”
“I see.” He joined her and put his glass next to hers.
“Did you think otherwise?”
His gaze slipped from her eyes to her lips and back. “I’m not sure what to think when it comes to you. Or what to believe. And you continue to surprise me.”
“Do I?”
He studied her as if deciding exactly what to say. “I did not expect you to take the hosting of this tour at all seriously. I expected it to be yet another lark of yours.”
“You expected me to be frivolous and concerned only with a good time?”
“Yes, I suppose I did.”
“Let me ask you this, then.” She chose her words with care. “While seduction was not your intention tonight, has it occurred to you?”
“Should I be honest?”
“Only if the answer is yes.”
“Then yes.” He drew a deep breath. “The thought has occurred to me. More than once.”
“How delightful.” Without thinking, she leaned close and brushed her lips across his. “It has occurred to me, as well.”
A quiet knock sounded at the door.
“That must be dinner.” He stepped away quickly—entirely too quickly—and moved to open the door. Her cheeks flushed with heat. What on earth had gotten into her? She’d never been that forward before. She’d certainly never kissed a man who was not her husband on anything other than the cheek before. Perhaps it was best they were interrupted.
The waiter entered pushing a cart with an assortment of dishes covered in silver domes followed by a second server. A few moments later they were seated.
Fortunately, the excellent meal provided a respite from the awkwardness of her impulsive action. The waiters stayed until they were finished, forcing their conversation to be far less personal than it had been before dinner. Nothing untoward, no moments of innuendo, no suggestive banter. They discussed tomorrow’s schedule and their itinerary after Paris. It began as polite conversation but as the evening wore on she found their talk, and the man, more and more interesting.
Dante discussed his love of art and his grandfather’s collection. His passion was most impressive. She spoke of her grandmother and Lady Plumdale and her time spent in Wales. He told stories of his family—it was exceptionally large. With both parents still living, his sister, of course, and her family, two uncles and a number of assorted cousins.
And if every now and then her gaze drifted to the dimples at the corners of his mouth and she remembered the heat of his lips against hers, well it was perhaps to be expected. She was not at all opposed to a bit of seduction.
When at last they were finished, the waiters cleared everything away and they were once again alone.
“It’s late,” she said with a reluctant smile. “I should return to my room.”
“Allow me to accompany you.”
Or you could ask me to stay. To finish wh
at we had no opportunity to begin. She dashed the thought away. Even if the man had thought of seducing her, he was certainly making no effort now to do so. But then she suspected he was the kind of man who thought seduction was a prelude to marriage and she wasn’t at all ready for that.
He stood and helped her with her chair. She rose to her feet and stepped toward the door.
“Tonight was most enjoyable,” she said. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“Willie.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his gaze locked with hers. “I too had an exceptional time.”
“Yes, well...” She stared into his brown eyes and ignored the strangest sensation of something warm and quivering in the pit of her stomach. Something she hadn’t felt for a very long time, even before George had died. Something rather wonderful. “I do apologize for my—”
“Don’t,” he said shortly. “You simply took me unawares. I told you that you have captivated me, Lady Bascombe. It was not merely a clever thing to say.”
“But it was delightful.” She had the most insane desire to swoon into his arms but, in spite of giving in to her earlier impulse to press her lips to his, she would not do so again. Although she would not resist him either.
“I will confess—”
A sharp, insistent rapping sounded at the door.
“Yes?” Surely the door could be ignored.
“I just wanted to—”
The rapping became more of a pounding, demanding and unrelenting.
“Go on,” she urged.
He released her hand with a reluctant sigh. “And that, as they say, is that.”
“But—” she stared “—you were about to confess something.”
“Apparently, it will have to wait.” He cast her a rueful smile and opened the door.
“Goodness, Dante, I didn’t think you’d ever answer. I feared you were already asleep.” Rosalind swept into the room then pulled up short. Her eyes widened. “Oh, Willie, I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“I was just about to leave.” Willie stepped toward the door.
“We had dinner together,” Dante said. “I assure you there was nothing the least bit improper.”
“I wouldn’t expect there to be.” Her gaze shifted from her brother to Willie and back. “And even if there had been, it’s not my concern. You are both adults and I’m certain you know the meaning of discretion.”
The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny With a Dashing Stranger Page 11
