Innocence and Impropriety

by Diane Gaston

  Flynn’s hand paused in mid-air, her touch branding his skin. Silently he nodded, slipping the box back in his pocket.

  ‘A gift would be very nice indeed,’ she said, raising her voice.

  ‘Then you shall have one very soon,’ he said.

  Rose returned her hand to her lap, her breath coming rapidly. Her hand still tingled from touching him, and all her insides felt like melted candle wax.

  He had played along with her wish not to have her father or Letty hear of a gift. If he had not, Letty would be badgering her for days to get her hands on a gift from a marquess. And to keep peace, her father would implore her to give in. The other gifts gentlemen left for her—gifts that ought to have been returned—made their way into Letty’s possession or were sold to buy some other trinket she desired.

  Rose tried to show Mr Flynn her gratitude with a look, but had to avert her gaze from the intensity of his startling blue eyes.

  When Letty had come to fetch her, saying the marquess’s secretary had arrived, Rose had been relieved she would not have to refuse a marquess to his face, especially if he were indeed the man who’d so captivated her. But the man who captivated her was his secretary and was Irish, and, even more wonderful, he’d become a momentary ally.

  He was very handsome up close, with his commanding gaze. His hair and brows were nearly as dark as her own. She loved the firmness of his jaw and the decisive set to his sinfully sensuous mouth. What would it be like to touch her lips to his?

  Rose mentally shook herself. She was thinking like a romantic, making this into a story like the novels she enjoyed reading, the ones that wove wonderful stories of love. This man had not come to court her, but to procure her for his employer.

  Even so, his blue eyes continued to enslave her.

  ‘The marquess is a good man, Miss O’Keefe,’ he said.

  She peered back at him. ‘Mr Flynn, why do you tie this up in pretty words? Do you not mean the marquess is wishing me to be his mistress? Is that not what this is about? Is that not the kind of “friend” he wishes me to be?’

  A muscle flexed in Mr Flynn’s jaw, but his gaze held. ‘To be such a friend of this man has many advantages. He can assist you. Protect you.’

  Rose’s gaze slipped back to the door that hid her father and Letty. They both certainly wanted her to accept the marquess’s protection. And his money.

  He looked to the door, as well. ‘Will you need protection, Miss O’Keefe?’ His voice was soft and low. And concerned.

  She glanced back in surprise and gave a light laugh. ‘I shall experience no difficulties, I assure you.’

  Letty was as unpleasant as a woman could be, and her father was completely under her thumb, but Rose did not feel they yielded that much authority over her. She liked living with her father, making up a little for all the years that had separated them.

  ‘You could allow the marquess to help you,’ he said.

  She reached over to grasp his hand in reassurance but stopped herself midway. ‘I’ll be needing no help.’ She added, ‘All I want is to sing…’

  He seized on those words. ‘Lord Tannerton could help you—’

  She put up her hand, regretting she had spoken. ‘I require no help. Do not be worrying yourself over me.’

  Their eyes connected, and it felt like butterflies took possession of her insides.

  ‘Thank the marquess for me,’ she said in a loud voice. ‘It was good of you to come.’ She stood and walked towards the door.

  It took a moment for him to follow her. ‘I do not understand you, Miss O’Keefe,’ he said, his voice no more than an urgent whisper. ‘Why do you hesitate?’

  She handed him his hat and gloves. ‘Good day to you, Mr Flynn.’ She opened the door.

  He started to walk through it, but turned and grasped her hand in his. ‘Welcome or not, Miss O’Keefe, you do have a friend.’

  He released her and swiftly took his leave. Rose brushed her hand against her cheek, wishing the friend were not the marquess but Mr Flynn himself.

  Chapter Three

  Flynn paused a moment when he reached the street, puzzled by this experience. The times he’d risked huge amounts of Tanner’s wealth on some tenuous business matter, he’d been in better control. Nothing had gone as he’d expected. Worse, his senses were still awhirl. Merely looking at the girl had been enough to throw his rationality out of the window.

  With no idea what to tell Tanner, he straightened his hat and started walking in the direction of Covent Garden to find a hack.

  ‘Mr Flynn!’ he heard behind him.

  Turning, he saw Mr O’Keefe running toward him. Flynn stopped.

  The older man caught up to him, breathing hard. ‘Letty said—I mean—I wanted a word with you.’

  Flynn merely waited.

  ‘Tell…tell the marquess how flattered we are—my daughter is, I mean—at his kind interest.’

  ‘I will tell him.’ Although, if Flynn did tell Tanner this, he’d be lying. The daughter did not seem flattered in the least.

  Mr O’Keefe’s mouth twisted into an apologetic smile. ‘My Rose is a sensible girl,’ he said, a fond look appearing in his eye. ‘She’ll just need some persuading.’

  Flynn regarded this man who looked as if a strong wind might blow him away. Flynn could not see him persuading his daughter about anything. The unpleasant Miss Dawes, however, was another matter.

  ‘I must leave.’ Flynn turned away.

  ‘Do try again, sir,’ Mr O’Keefe cried as Flynn walked away.

  Flynn looked over his shoulder. ‘I shall tell the marquess you said so.’

  Mr O’Keefe nodded vigorously, and Flynn hurried on his way to a row of waiting hackney carriages.

  He soon reached Tanner’s Audley Street town house, returning to the familiar opulence, the order, the civility.

  The footman who opened the door said, ‘His lordship wishes you to attend him in the game room straight away.’

  Not even a moment to collect himself, nor to plan an explanation of his incredible meeting with Miss O’Keefe.

  ‘Thank you, Smythe.’ Flynn handed the man his hat and gloves and made his way to the game room.

  When he entered, Tanner was leaning over the billiard table, lining up a shot. Flynn stood in the doorway until the ball cracked into another one, sending it rolling across the green baize and landing successfully in the pocket.

  ‘Flynn!’ Tanner waved him in. ‘Come, tell me all about it. I am most anxious. Could think of nothing else since you left.’

  Tanner settled himself in one of the leather chairs by the window and gestured for Flynn to pour them some claret from the decanter on the side table.

  ‘Well, did you see her?’ Tanner asked as Flynn handed him a glass of claret. ‘Of course you did or you’d have been back sooner. What did she say? Did she like the gift? What the devil did you purchase for her?’

  Flynn poured wine for himself, but did not sit. ‘I purchased a matched set of gold bracelets.’

  ‘And?’ Tanner grinned eagerly.

  Flynn took a sip before speaking. ‘She refused the gift.’

  Tanner half-rose from his seat. ‘Refused?’

  ‘I fear so, my lord,’ he admitted.

  Tanner waved his hand dismissively. ‘It was the wrong gift, then, but I am sure you assured her there would be more gifts. What of a meeting?’

  Flynn averted his eyes.

  The marquess sank back in the chair. ‘Do not tell me she refused to meet me?’

  ‘She did not refuse exactly, but neither did she agree.’ Flynn’s powers of diplomacy had escaped him with Miss O’Keefe, but perhaps they would hold him in better stead with Tanner.

  Tanner raised his brows. ‘What the devil happened then? What did you talk about?’

  Of home. Of Ireland. But Flynn was not about to provide this as an answer. ‘I explained the advantages of your…friendship, and she listened.’

  ‘That is all?’ The marquess’s forehead wrinkled
in confusion.

  ‘That is all.’

  Tanner slowly sipped his wine, finishing it, while Flynn could not even put a glass to his lips.

  He placed his still-full glass on the table and reached for the decanter. ‘More, sir?’

  Tanner shook his head, still silent.

  All of a sudden Tanner burst into a wide grin and thrust out his glass. ‘She is playing a deep game, is all. Gold bracelets? You were too cheap, man. The girl wants more and she knows she can get it!’ He laughed. ‘You must deliver a more valuable gift.’

  Flynn refilled Tanner’s wine glass, not wanting to explain that giving Miss O’Keefe a gift was not so simple a task.

  ‘Give her emeralds next time, to set off her eyes. An emerald ring!’ Tanner’s own brown eyes sparkled. ‘What the devil, offer her patronage as well—an allowance. A generous one. Show her I am willing to pay her price.’

  As a business move, Flynn typically would have advised against this. The next offer in a negotiation ought not to be so high. But in Rose O’Keefe’s situation, he was more than willing to try to get her away from the bullying Miss Dawes.

  Flynn nodded. His heart raced at the prospect of seeing her again, even though to see her was merely a function of his duty to Tanner. Still, he could not erase from his memory the sensuous grace of her figure, the irresistible tint of her lips, the eyes that beckoned him home.

  He took his leave from Tanner. There was much to be done to carry out the next phase of the marquess’s plan.

  The very next night Flynn stood below the gazebo’s balcony at Vauxhall Gardens, again listening to the crystalline sound of Rose O’Keefe’s voice filling the evening with song. He’d secured a private box and supper for Miss O’Keefe, leaving a message to her father to escort her to the box when the orchestra broke and Signor Rivolta, the man who played six or eight instruments at once, performed. He trusted her father would approve of the meeting.

  She wore the wine-red gown again, the colour of passionate nights, and her fair skin glowed against its richness. Flynn convinced himself he merely admired her beauty, the way he might appreciate the beauty of a flower or a painting or how the house in Ballynahinch shone golden in the light of the setting sun.

  He watched until she made her final curtsy and disappeared into the dark recesses of the balcony. He then made his way to the supper box to ensure all was as he’d planned—a supper of light delicacies, nothing too fancy, but all very tasteful. Assured everything was prepared and ready, he spent the rest of the time pacing, his breath catching whenever the music ceased, and easing when it resumed again.

  Finally the orchestra was silent. Flynn continued pacing until he heard the O’Keefes approach. Unfortunately, it was Miss Dawes’s piercing voice that gave him warning. He ought to have expected her.

  ‘Behave yourself, miss. I’ll not have you ruining this for your father—’ The woman’s speech cut off when she saw Flynn. ‘Mr Flynn!’ She switched to a syrupy tone.

  ‘Good evening,’ Flynn said to them all, but to the one who wore a hooded cape that nearly obscured her face, his voice turned husky. ‘Miss O’Keefe.’

  She nodded. ‘Mr Flynn.’

  ‘This is so very kind of you, sir.’ Mr O’Keefe tiptoed into the box and hesitated before accepting Flynn’s outstretched hand. O’Keefe’s hand was bony, but his handshake warm.

  ‘So kind,’ O’Keefe murmured. He turned to his daughter. ‘Is that not so, Mary Rose?’

  She merely glanced at her father before turning to Flynn. ‘Is the marquess here?’

  Both Mr O’Keefe and Miss Dawes wore hopeful expressions, but Miss O’Keefe seemed anything but eager.

  ‘He regrets not being at liberty to come,’ Flynn prevaricated. He directed them to the table. ‘But please sit and have some supper.’

  Mr O’Keefe and Miss Dawes hurried to the round table set with porcelain china, crystal glassware and silver cutlery. Flynn pulled out the chair for Miss O’Keefe, and she glanced into his eyes as she sat down. He signalled the footman to bring another chair and place setting, after which the food was served: tender capons and a rich assortment of cheeses and fruit. The footman uncorked a bottle of champagne, pouring it into all four glasses.

  ‘Oooh, bubbles!’ exclaimed Miss Dawes in her coarse voice. ‘I love the bubbly wine.’

  Rose picked up her glass and took a sip. She had tasted champagne before at Miss Hart’s, so its fizzy taste was not a surprise.

  She watched Letty dig into the prettily displayed food as if she had not consumed a large dinner a few hours before. Mr Flynn’s food was fine, Rose thought, nibbling more delicately. The cheese tasted good with the strawberries and cherries.

  Mr Flynn sat himself next to her and she discovered that she was very aware of each small movement he made. In a way she was glad she could not see his eyes. It was hard to be thinking when she could see his eyes.

  Signor Rivolta’s lively music drifted over to their ears, his gay tune seeming out of place in the tension-filled supper box.

  ‘When is the marquess going to make his offer for our Rose?’ Letty bluntly asked.

  Rose stilled, hating that Flynn would be associating someone so ill mannered with her.

  Flynn paused, just one beat, before directing his answer to her father. ‘To speak of an offer is premature, sir, but I should like to discuss with Miss O’Keefe a possible meeting.’

  ‘Oh, there will be an offer all right,’ Letty broke in, waving her fork at Rose. ‘Look at her! What man could resist our lovely Rose?’

  She reached over and not so gently patted Rose on the cheek. It was all Rose could do not to flinch.

  ‘I am most interested in my daughter’s welfare,’ her father added in an earnest voice. ‘This must be worth her while.’

  Rose disliked being discussed like this, as if she were goods to barter.

  Mr Flynn put down his fork. ‘I am instructed to tell you, Mr O’Keefe, that the marquess insists I speak with the lady herself in such matters. He must be assured his interest suits her before he proceeds in the negotiation. I am sure you understand.’

  Her father’s brows knitted. ‘But I must also agree to any arrangements. She is still my responsibility, sir.’

  ‘She knows what is expected of her,’ added Letty.

  Rose knew exactly what Letty expected. Letty expected a great deal of money to come into her pocket by way of this marquess. She glanced at her father. His motives were more unselfish, but still distasteful.

  ‘We will speak later,’ Flynn said to her father.

  Rose rather liked the way Flynn simply passed over Letty, as if she had no say in the matter, which she certainly did not.

  ‘She’s still young, Mr Flynn,’ her father added, sounding genuinely worried.

  Flynn turned to Rose with a question in his eyes, but Rose had no idea what he was asking. ‘I will see no harm comes to her.’ His gaze changed into something that made her feel like fanning herself.

  She glanced down at her food. Imagine that a mere look from a man could make her feel like that.

  Signor Rivolta’s music ended and the faint sound of applause could be heard. Soon the orchestra would play again.

  ‘I must get back.’ Mr O’Keefe rose.

  Flynn stood as well. ‘Miss Dawes will wish to go with you, I am certain.’ He walked over to help Letty from her chair, giving her no oppportunity to argue. ‘I will safely deliver Miss O’Keefe to you before the night is done.’

  Mr Flynn escorted them both out of the box, then returned to the table, sitting opposite her this time.

  Rose gazed at him with admiration. ‘You do have the silver tongue, do you not, Mr Flynn? I believe Letty thought she wanted to go with Papa.’

  He frowned. ‘Only one of many talents,’ he said absently.

  He’d rattled her again, making her wonder what had suddenly made him frown. She picked up a strawberry and bit into it, slowly licking its juice from her lips.

  Mr Flynn’s eyes dar
kened and he looked even more disturbed.

  Rose paused. Could it be she had captured Mr Flynn’s interest? That idea made her giddy.

  She took another sip of champagne and lowered her eyes to gaze at him through her long lashes. He reached over to retrieve his glass, downing the entire contents.

  Rose felt light headed.

  He gave her an intent look. ‘We must talk, Miss O’Keefe.’

  But she was not finished flirting with him. She leaned forward, knowing it afforded him a better glimpse of the low neckline of her gown. ‘Will you not call me Rose?’

  His eyes darkened again. ‘Rose,’ he repeated in a low voice that resonated deep inside her.

  Their heads were close together, his eyes looking as deep a blue as the Irish Sea. The air crackled between them and he leaned closer.

  A reveller, one who no doubt had been drinking heavily, careened into the supper box, nearly knocking into the table. The footman quickly appeared and escorted him out, but it was enough to break the moment between them.

  He frowned. ‘I apologise for that.’

  She hoped he meant the drunken man. ‘You could not help it.’

  He gazed at her in that stirring way again. ‘I could not help it.’ He set his jaw. ‘About the marquess—’

  But Rose could not bear losing this new, intoxicating connection between them. She daringly put her hand upon his arm. ‘Let us not speak of the marquess. Let us simply enjoy this beautiful night.’

  He stared at her hand for a moment. Slowly he raised his head. ‘Your father—’

  ‘I will tell my father that I put you off, but that you will be back.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘What say you? Can we walk through the gardens? I have seen so little of Vauxhall. I have been confined to the gazebo, really.’

  He stared at her, then released a long breath. ‘Very well.’

  With a leaping heart, she finished the rest of her champagne. She grasped his hand in hers and led him out of the supper box. He offered his arm. ‘Hold on to me, Rose. I must keep you safe.’