What would Peter think when he learned his competition was none other than Devil Weybridge himself? Considering Quentin’s reputation, she hoped Peter would decide he was beaten before he’d even begun.
Cheered by the thought, she took Quentin’s arm.
“India, hmm?” he said, as they crossed the room together. “It’s a lovely name, but if you don’t mind my saying, a rather unusual one as well.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. And it would be unusual, except for the fact that I’ve always believed it demonstrates a marked lack of originality on my parents’ part.”
“How so?”
“Because my father was stationed with the military in India at the time of my birth, and it’s where I was born. I’ve always been grateful he wasn’t assigned to a post in Egypt or Gibraltar, or just think of the name I’d have now.”
He laughed, his deep brown eyes twinkling with undisguised humor. “The prospect does give one pause. Although I must say you would have made a very pretty Gibraltara, or Egyptia perhaps?”
“Please, don’t even jest,” she said with a mock shudder. “The thought is too dreadful to contemplate. Believe me, I like India just fine.”
Their gazes met. “I like India, too,” he said in a serious tone. “In fact, the more I know of her, the more I am finding to admire.”
Her heart pounded, the smile sliding from her mouth as she lost herself in his beautiful eyes.
“I’ve brought you a lemonade, Miss Byron,” interrupted a defiant, young male voice. “I thought you looked a bit warm and in need of refreshment.”
Turning her head, she saw Peter Harte hovering close by. “Mr. Harte,” she said.
“Here”—he thrust the glass toward her—“this is for you.”
Seeing no other option, she accepted the beverage.
The moment she did, Quentin reached out and gently removed it from her hand, setting it onto a nearby tray. “Miss Byron doesn’t care for lemonade. She told me she is more in the mood for tea.”
Peter bristled, thrusting out his chin. “And who are you to decide what Miss Byron does and does not like?”
“The gentleman she has chosen to procure refreshments for her this evening.” Using a look only a duke could carry off, Quentin stared down his nose with bored hauteur. “And you are, sir?”
Peter shifted, clearly discomfited. “Peter Harte, Esquire.”
“Ah,” Quentin replied. “Come, my dear India. Let us get that tea for you.”
Recovering herself, she moved to obey.
“And who are you, sir?” Peter demanded, obviously not about to be put off.
Quentin stopped and turned back. “I am Weybridge. Anything else you should like to know?”
Wheels turned almost visibly inside Peter’s brain as he pondered the import of Quentin’s reply. His eyes widened as comprehension dawned. Mouth agape, he stared.
“I thought not,” Quentin said.
Turning again, he led her away.
“That was amazing,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen him rendered speechless.”
“It was one way of handling him. We’ll see how long it lasts.”
“Surely, that will do the trick, and he will cease this futile pursuit.”
“Perhaps. For now though, my dear, you have some tea to drink.”
Chapter Four
Peter Harte stared at them through dinner and cards that evening, then again through breakfast the following morning—his relentless hazel gaze so intrusive it nearly put India off her eggs and buttered toast.
For his part, Quentin took it all in stride, seeming to find humor in the other man’s fulminating glances when he wasn’t otherwise occupied lavishing attention on her.
And lavish attention he did, turning the full force of his magnetic personality her way like the warmth of a brilliant sun. When she’d asked him to pretend to court her, she hadn’t realized exactly what that might entail. Yet she could marshal no complaint, quite unable to resist his sophisticated charm and scintillating conversation, regardless of how out of her depth it occasionally left her feeling.
She had to admit to a sensation of relief, however, when Lady Pettigrew announced shortly after breakfast that the gentlemen would be taking to the fields to hunt wildfowl. She was sorry Quentin would be away, but under the circumstances it was worth the loss, since she would be spared Peter’s petulant stares and glares for an entire afternoon. And so with smiles and waves, she and the other ladies saw the men off, remaining behind to indulge in archery and watercolor painting.
Nearly three hours later, India was adding a flourish of vermilion to her watercolor paper when she heard the unmistakable sounds of barking dogs and male voices.
“Home already, are they?” declared Lady Pettigrew. “I wonder if they had any luck? Usually they’re out far longer than this.”
Over the rise they came. As the group drew nearer, hunting rifles bent open over their elbows, it became apparent that a mishap had befallen the party.
Or rather one of the party.
Resembling a drenched cat and looking every inch as miserable, Peter Harte was soaked through. His hair was plastered to his head like a monk’s cap, while his once-fashionable country attire clung to his lanky frame in a most uncomfortable manner. To make matters worse, he was stained brown as a nut, doused in a slick gleam of mud that coated him from head to toe.
Laying down her brush, India stood, along with a few of the other ladies.
The Ossley sisters—a pair of young women, who looked so much alike she was never quite sure which one she was addressing—hurried toward the men. The two of them made noises of sympathy, clucking and cooing over Peter, even as they made certain not to get too close for fear of staining their gowns with a stray fleck of mud.
“Stars above. What in the world happened to you, Mr. Harte?” Aunt Ava asked from her seat next to Lady Pettigrew.
A few of the men chuckled under their breaths at the question, obviously amused by whatever it was that had happened.
“He landed himself in the bog, that’s what,” Lord Pettigrew answered, when Peter did not speak up. “He and Weybridge were competing for the most birds taken, and were tied at six each, when Harte had to try bagging one more. Didn’t listen when I told him not to wander off to the east, but he went regardless. Not three minutes later, he was plunged up to his neck in weeds and muck.”
“Dear me,” Lady Pettigrew said.
Dear me indeed, India thought, lifting a hand to cover a smile.
“If not for Weybridge and the rather ingenious use of some fallen tree branches, Harte would probably still be stuck in the quagmire. We were talking about sending for a pair of oxen and a pulley when the duke saved the day.”
The men laughed—all of them except Quentin, who remained straight-faced and silent. As for Peter, his cheeks turned pink as a boiled lobster under his coating of grime.
India almost felt sorry for him since she knew exactly why he’d been so determined to take that last bird. He’d wanted to return the valiant warrior and show off for her. Instead, he’d only made a spectacle of himself—and a filthy one at that.
“At least we came away with an excellent brace of birds,” Lord Pettigrew continued, turning to address his wife. “Tell Cook to add duck and partridge to tomorrow night’s repast. There should be plenty for all. Now come along, Harte, before that muck dries so hard you need a bootjack to scrape it off.”
With a muffled curse, Peter turned and stalked away. The Misses Ossley followed, skipping along next to him, while they peppered him with a barrage of sympathetic remarks. Unfortunately, Peter didn’t seem to appreciate their comments in the least.
Lord Pettigrew and the other men soon followed. As they did, Quentin strolled up to India, leaning close so their words could not be overheard. “Harte is nothing if not entertaining.”
“And determined,” she replied. “It must have been quite a sight watching him fall into that bog.”
“And even more
of one getting him out.” Quentin grinned, showing his teeth in an irresistible smile that had India smiling back.
Sweeping him with a glance, she noticed streaks of mud on his coat, sleeves, and boots. “Perhaps I ought not mention the fact, Your Grace, but it appears you have carried back a trace of the bog on you as well.”
He shrugged. “Nothing a hot bath and a change of attire won’t rectify.”
An image of him stripped to the skin and stepping into a bath caused her blood to flow faster. She could only imagine how breathtaking he would look without so much as a stitch of clothing on his body.
Quentin arched a brow, his eyes glinting. “Sixpence for your thoughts.”
She glanced away, grateful her cheeks were already flushed pink from the hot August sun. “My thoughts are nothing special. I was only wondering how much longer before nuncheon is served.”
“Liar,” he said, a low laugh rumbling from his chest. “Save me a seat at the table, hmm? Until then, pray enjoy your watercolor painting. That’s quite a nice start you’ve made.”
Pleasure slid through her. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
With another light chuckle, he made her a bow, then sauntered away.
She watched until he disappeared, certain that painting would be the farthest thing from her mind.
“Allow me to turn the pages for you, Miss Byron,” Peter Harte declared as India took a seat in front of the pianoforte after dinner that evening.
She held back a sigh as she arranged the skirts of her ivory silk gown. “How kind of you to offer, but this tune is a familiar one. I shall do quite well on my own.”
“Nonetheless, I wouldn’t feel right leaving you to manage by yourself. I am certain you will find my services of great use.”
I am sure I shall not, she thought.
But he had already taken up a position behind her left shoulder, and short of leaping up and pushing him away, she saw little recourse but to accept his offer with silent grace.
After opening the musical score on the stand, she took a moment to glance across the guest-filled drawing room. Her gaze went unerringly to Quentin, finding him seated on the other side of the room next to Mallory and Major Hargreaves. Her cousin’s dark head was bent close to the major’s guinea gold one, the two of them deep in conversation.
Quentin, however, was looking straight at her. Deciding to take advantage of the opportunity, she shot him a clear “rescue me” look.
To her consternation, he merely shrugged and smiled.
Responding before she thought, she stuck her tongue out at him—praying afterward that no one else had seen.
His grin stretched wide, chest moving in a silent laugh, as he relaxed back in his chair. From all appearances he looked ready to enjoy the coming entertainment, having apparently decided to abandon her for the time being.
Forcing her gaze away, she stared for a moment at her skirt.
“He’ll never come up to scratch, you know.”
“What?” Her gaze shot to Peter’s.
“Weybridge,” he said in a low voice. “He isn’t the marrying kind, despite what he may have convinced you to believe. You would be far better off accepting my marriage proposal.”
“We’ve had this discussion before, Mr. Harte. Many times before. Now, everyone is waiting for me to begin.”
And they were, gazes turning her way in anticipation of her performance. Suddenly, she was grateful she’d chosen a song she had often played before; otherwise, she would surely have made a fool of herself.
As it was, she bobbled the first flourish of notes before she settled into the rhythm.
“Aren’t you glad now that I’m here to help?” Peter murmured, clearly unaware of his implied insult to her playing.
She didn’t answer, concentrating on getting through the piece—and then getting rid of Peter. She shot another glance at Quentin. Their gazes met again, his dark eyes warm with obvious enjoyment.
Is Peter right that Quentin isn’t the marrying kind?
Very likely, she decided, given everything she knew about him. But what did it matter since he wasn’t actually courting her. They were only passing a brief span of time together, then they would part, possibly forever.
Staring hard at the music, she realized she was nearly at the end of the last stanza on that sheet. “The page, Mr. Harte,” she chastened in an uncharacteristically impatient tone. “Are you following the notes?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” But it was obvious he had not been, fumbling with the paper as he leaned over to turn the score a few beats too late.
Luckily, her playing was almost automatic by then, giving her confidence that she would be able to finish the song and not disgrace herself too badly in the attempt.
Finally, she played the final chord, smiling with relief that the performance was through.
Her fellow house guests broke into appreciative applauses.
“Bravo!” Peter called in a loud voice, beating his hands together with an excess of enthusiasm. “Excellent! Outstanding!”
She climbed to her feet. “Thank you,” she said in a quiet voice. “But my playing was nothing more than adequate. Pray do not give it more credit than it deserves.”
“But I’m not. It was wonderful! Perfection itself. As are you, lovely, unassuming Miss Byron.”
She stared at him, suddenly alarmed by the notion that he and others might think she was being deliberately self-effacing in order to elicit his praise. She cringed at the very idea.
“Your beauty, your talent, your grace knows no rival,” he continued, his voice carrying across the room. “You are like a goddess brought down to earth.”
“Mr. Harte, enough. Please,” she whispered, wanting to flee from him but knowing it would only draw more attention their way.
He waved his arms in a fulsome arc. “But why should I cease when I speak only the truth? You are too modest, that is all. Too modest to know the full extent of your own brilliance. Do you know, I think I feel a verse coming upon me.”
No, anything but that!
She was about to hurry away, when Quentin appeared at her side.
“Miss Byron,” he said in a low tone, as he reached out to take her arm. “I believe you promised to join me for a cup of tea and a sweetmeat. I have a spot on the settee all picked out.”
Peter puffed out his chest. “I say. The lady and I were having a conversation, you know.”
“Yes, you were having a conversation, but it is now at an end. In case you weren’t aware, Miss Ossley is waiting to entertain us all, and you are keeping her from doing so.”
“Oh, I…well, no, I didn’t realize,” Peter sputtered.
“Miss Ossley.” Quentin motioned to the girl.
She walked forward, together with her sister, the pair of them moving into place at the pianoforte. One sat while the other whispered something in her ear. The pair of them giggled.
“Mr. Harte,” one of the girls called. “Would you turn the pages for us like you did Miss Byron? We would be ever so grateful.” They whispered something to each other again, then released another round of giggles.
Peter frowned, his irritation clear. But manners dictated he could do nothing but accept. Mumbling something inaudible under his breath, he went to do as he was bade.
“And so, you escape once again,” Quentin murmured in India’s ear, as he drew her away.
“Yes, though you certainly took your time about it,” she said, releasing a pent-up sigh of relief. “Actually, I oughtn’t even speak to you after your desertion.”
He flashed her an inquiring look. “And what would you have had me do? Battle him for the right to stand next to you while you performed? I don’t believe either of us would have benefited from that kind of scene. I do apologize, though, for not reaching you a minute sooner. Had I been quicker, I could have spared you and the rest of us his public soliloquy. Forgive me. Please.”
The starch came out of her shoulders. “You are forgiven. But don’t leave me
again. I expect you to stick close by my side for the remainder of the party.”
He bent nearer, his warm breath whispering against her ear. “I can think of nowhere else I would rather be than close to you.”
Her heart knocked hard beneath her breast.
“Here we are,” he declared, arriving in front of a small couch upholstered in burgundy damask. “I thought this settee would give us a chance to talk without being overheard.”
She stared at the settee, noticing that the narrow piece of furniture was made to seat two—only two and rather snugly at that. Her mouth grew dry, breath suddenly thin inside her lungs.
Unable to form the necessary words, she nodded and let him seat her, then himself. His large frame filled the space, one powerful thigh lolling a hairbreadth from her own.
Glancing around, she looked to see if anyone else was watching them, but no one was. Despite being in a drawing room with more than two dozen people, the corner felt amazingly private. Amazingly intimate. Vaguely, she became aware of one of the Ossley sisters launching into a painfully slow rendition of a Mozart adagio.
“I asked one of the footmen to bring us tea and something sweet. You like marchpane, do you not?”
“Y-yes.”
And truthfully, she did like marchpane, though at present she suspected she might have been willing to agree to nearly anything he asked.
Glancing up, she lost herself for a moment in the rich brown depths of his eyes. He is magnificent, she thought, wishing as she had once before that she could reach up and thread her fingers through his luxurious black hair and the silvery wings that feathered out from his temples.
“You do play well,” he said.
“What?” Her brows drew together, needing a moment to adjust to the sudden change in conversation.
“I greatly enjoyed your performance on the pianoforte. Although, as you said yourself, it was not without fault.”
“A gentleman would not point out such things.”
“A gentleman like Harte, you mean? We haven’t been acquainted long, but I know you well enough to tell that you don’t care for false flattery.”
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