by Cheryl Bolen
To Maggie’s stunned approval, Mr. Lyle began to stroke Tubby’s gray fur and speak to the cat as if he were cooing a baby. “Well now, my pretty girl, what’s your name?”
“She’s a he,” Rebecca corrected.
“His name is Tubby,” Maggie said.
A huge grin spread across Harry’s face. “So you like to eat, do you?” he cooed to the cat. “A most fitting name for a most friendly cat.” He ignored the cat hair which carpeted his charcoal breeches and cradled the animal to his breast, continuing to speak tenderly.
Maggie was delighted. “It’s so refreshing to see a man show affection to felines,” she said, “for a partiality to dogs seems a more manly preference. In fact the only man I’ve ever known to adore cats was--” Oh dear, she had as good as told him his affection for cats made him effeminate. Which she’d vow he wasn’t. She quickly popped a comfit in her mouth. “Was quite highly regarded by me,” she finished after chewing her candy. Thank goodness she had changed her original sentence in which she had planned to say “was a fop.”
“Personally,” she continued, “I don’t see how anyone could prefer dogs over cats. Especially big dogs that can’t cuddle on one’s lap.”
“Not all cats are as cuddly as Tubby,” Rebecca pointed out.
Mr. Lyle tickled under Tubby’s chin and spoke affectionately. “Actually I love dogs too. In fact I love all animals. Daresay it comes from not having any brothers or sisters. Pets were my playmates when I was a child.”
“So you’re an only child,” Maggie said. “You must tell me all about yourself, Mr. Lyle.” Her eyes dancing, she folded her hands in her lap and leaned against the back of the settee, eager to learn more of this prospective suitor.
Before any words left Mr. Lyle's mouth, Wiggins announced Lord Aynsley was calling upon Maggie.
“Do show him in,” Maggie said, noting that Mr. Lyle had stiffened. “And please bring more tea.”
When Lord Aynsley strolled into the room carrying more flowers for Maggie, Mr. Lyle set Tubby on the Turkey carpet and stood to greet the peer. That the two men obviously resented the other’s presence reminded Maggie of two circling cocks about to fight.
She gushed over the flowers, smelling them before setting them on the tea table. The viscount came to sit on the end of the settee Harry occupied and addressed his attentions to Maggie. “I’ve been concerned about your ladyship’s health.”
“Why so?” Maggie asked, taking in the peer’s satisfactory appearance. His slight build, trim waist, and natty style of dress belied his forty years of age. Were it not for his thinning brownish gray hair, he could pass for thirty. His face was genial, not at all unattractive, and he was in the habit of perpetually smiling. Perhaps he was more eligible than Mr. Lyle. Now she was in a quandary as to which man she should endeavor to form an attachment to.
“Because of Lord Warwick’s note informing me that your propensity to colds excluded you from outdoor pursuits until the weather warms,” Lord Aynsley said.
She did wish Lord Warwick would first apprise her of his silly excuses. “The weather, I must admit, has been abominable since I’ve been in London.”
“But you have stayed well?”
She gathered her shawl around her. It was the knitted shawl Lord Warwick had procured for her in Greenwich at great cost, the one she had told him she treasured. She had taken to wearing it throughout the day and night. It served as a reminder that Lord Warwick was not always the ill-tempered ogre. She tortured herself remembering how solicitous he was of her when she was damp and frightened in the inn’s dimly lit parlor, remembering what a tender lover he had been. “Though it’s very dank, I’ve managed to keep warm,” she said. “Lord Warwick has promised an outing to Almack’s next Wednesday, provided the weather isn’t too inclement--and provided my . . . delicate health holds up.”
Maggie ignored the fact Rebecca was glaring at her.
“I beg that you dance the first set with me,” Lord Aynsley said.
Mr. Lyle’s cold gaze shot daggers at the viscount. “I’m afraid the lady cannot do that. She has promised the first set to me.”
Lord Aynsley’s posture went stiff, then his eyes softened and he spoke to Maggie. “Then oblige me by saving the second for me.”
“I will be happy to do so, my lord.”
She found herself looking from one man to the other, mentally comparing them. They were both so terribly amiable. They both were above average in appearance. Both men had apparently met with Lord Warwick’s approval--even if Lord Warwick had eschewed the fact that Lord Aynsley’s progeny included seven children and his country seat was in Shropshire--neither of which seemed a hindrance to Maggie. Both men seemed genuinely fond of her. Not like . . . oh, she could not allow her vexing thoughts to turn to the utterly ineligible Lord Warwick.
It was as if her thinking of Lord Warwick summoned him for he and another man--a distinguished looking man in his fifties--presently strolled into the room. Lord Warwick’s gaze skimmed from one man to the other, then stopped with a frown at the lush bouquet that tumbled on the tea table.
“Lord Carrington,” he said, “allow me to present you to the Countess Warwick.”
Lord Carrington swept into a gallant bow. “May I say, my lady, you’re even more beautiful than Warwick said?”
Her insides fluttered and she willed herself to not meet Lord Warwick’s gaze. “You’re very kind, my lord, and may I say you’re every bit as distinguished as I’ve been told you were?” Her gaze skipped from his gray hair to his blue eyes and aristocratically handsome face, then along his lean body clothed in exceeding good taste.
“Please join us for tea, my lord,” she said to him.
Lord Warwick nodded his mumbled greetings to the two men then came to sit on a chair a few feet away from Maggie while Lord Carrington sat in a chair close to Lord Warwick.
“I thought you had work to do,” Mr. Lyle said to Lord Warwick.
Lord Warwick glared at his coworker. “I could say the same to you.”
Oh dear, Lord Warwick was in one of his sulking moods, she could see.
To compound his ill temper, Tubby decided to pay him a visit. Not just pay him a visit. The cat launched itself upon the earl’s lap and was settling in when Lord Warwick picked up his boneless body and tossed him to the carpet. “It’s bad enough that my house is turned into an orangery, that men come and go as if it were a livery stable, but to make matters worse an exceedingly overfed feline has determined that my lap is his bed.” He directed a cold glance at Maggie. “I thought you were going to keep your cat from my library.”
“Oh dear, has Tubby been disturbing your work?” Maggie asked.
“As a matter of fact, he has!”
“I’m very sorry indeed,” she said. “I won’t let him bother you again.”
“Let up, Warwick,” Mr. Lyle said. “You should be honored that Tubby likes you.” He reached down and scooped up the cat. “You’re a real sweetheart, aren’t you, Tubby?” Mr. Lyle said in a tender voice.
“Mr. Lyle and Mr. Tubs get along beautifully,” Maggie said, scowling at Lord Warwick. “He appreciates Tubby’s affectionate nature.”
“Daresay it would be different were he a dog,” Lord Warwick grumbled. “A big dog.”
“I think you’re being very pig---” Maggie reached for the comfits. After she had chewed one, she amended her statement. “Very big hearted to allow my sister and me to cause such upheaval in your home.”
She redirected her attention to Lord Carrington, whom she feared she was neglecting. “Tell me, Lord Carrington, about your family. Have you children?”
“I’ve not had that pleasure since I’ve never been married.”
How did such a prize escape the Marriage Mart all these years, she wondered. She could easily imagine how handsome he must have been thirty years ago, for he was still handsome today. And how should she respond to his comment? She could not very well lament the waste of his title and his lack of heirs. Nor could
she express her sadness that his line would become extinct. She opened the tin of comfits and ate one. “Let us hope, my lord, the perfect marchioness for you is just around the next corner.”
The way his gaze slithered along her body made her unaccountably uncomfortable.
“Sorry, Warwick, if my presence has disturbed you,” Lord Aynsley said, “but I haven’t come to see you. I wished to assure myself as to the countess’s good health.”
“You can see she’s perfectly healthy,” Lord Warwick snapped.
“But that’s not how I perceived things from the note you sent around to Cavendish Square.”
“Oh, yes.” Lord Warwick reminded himself of the missive. “Daresay her staying indoors has . . . protected her delicate lungs.” His gaze lit on her blue shawl.
She could have sworn his eyes softened.
Yet a few seconds later he was scowling at Lord Aynsley. “How are your children, Aynsley?”
“I’m presuming they all are well. They’re at Dunton Hall at present.”
“Still having trouble keeping a governess?” Lord Warwick asked. “As I recall, your sons’ proclivity to putting crawling creatures into the ladies’ beds has made keeping a governess rather difficult.”
Lord Aynsley squirmed uncomfortably on the settee. “As it happens I am currently seeking a new governess.”
Maggie’s heart went out to Lord Aynsley and his motherless children. “It sounds to me as if your dear children only lack for a loving mother.”
His face brightened. “I agree, my lady. The lads are really good boys.”
“I should like to meet them,” Maggie said.
“I would be honored to have you make their acquaintance.”
Lord Warwick cleared his throat. “It’s unlikely Lady Warwick would wish to brave the dank weather in Shropshire--because of her delicate lungs.”
Really, Lord Warwick was being a positive ogre! She looked from one uncomfortable visitor to the other. How could two such amiable men have turned into stone statues in the span of a few minutes? Only Lord Carrington maintained his composure.
“Well,” Lord Aynsley said, getting to his feet. “I’d best be on my way.” He bowed to Maggie. “May I call on you tomorrow?”
“I should be delighted,” she answered.
Mr. Lyle scowled at Lord Warwick, then got to his feet. “I had best return to my work.”
“I’ll go with you,” Lord Carrington said. He turned to Maggie. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, my lady. May I call on you again?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied.
Once the gentlemen were gone, she snatched up the tin of comfits and ate one. Had she not, she would have unleashed her temper on his lordship for his rudeness to her guests. But she had no right to chastise him since she was a guest in his house. She picked up Tubby and stroked his soft fur. A pity her visitors, her cat, and herself so ignited Lord Warwick’s wrath. “I’m only trying to be agreeable to the men,” she told the earl, “in order to attract a husband in order to allow you to be rid of my repugnant presence.”
His goldish brown eyes held hers. And softened. “I told you before. You could never be repugnant.” Then, breaking the gaze, he got up and left the room.
Chapter 13
Lord Warwick had no guests for dinner that night. She had thought he’d rather enjoyed playing whist the previous night, but he seemed to enjoy nothing tonight. He was out of charity with poor Mr. Lyle, with Tubby--and with her.
He avoided looking at her. He avoided speaking to her. And that brooding look was back on his darkly handsome face.
During dinner, she put her mind to devising ways to please her host. If only there was some service she could render him in payment for his hospitality--as grudgingly as he had bestowed it. Even if she had money to purchase something for him, what did one give to a man whose pockets were so deep? Were she a needlewoman, she could sew him a fine linen shirt, but everyone knew she was no needlewoman. Since she was a rather well-organized person, she had thought to tidy his library for him, but had discovered he was even more well organized than she. No matter how many papers were piled on his desk, he never left the library without completely cleaning its surface. She remembered his interest in shooting and angling but was powerless to help him in that quarter also. Mental challenges appealed to him, as they did to her. She would have to content herself by being his formidable opponent at chess.
During dinner he directed most of his comments to Rebecca. What was Miss Peabody reading now? Had she read "Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage?" Who were her favorite poets?
Maggie did not like being ignored. “I’ve been reading Pride and Prejudice,” she informed her dinner companions.
“And do you like it as much as Miss Peabody did?” he asked, studying the sturgeon he was putting on his fork and avoiding eye contact with her.
“Since I’ve read only half of the book, I cannot say it’s the best novel I’ve ever read, but I am enjoying it excessively.” She turned her attention to Rebecca. “Do you think the author means for the book to be humorous?”
Rebecca smiled. “The author is very talented, and I don’t doubt that she intended Mrs. Bingley and Mr. Collins be portrayed in a humorous light.”
Lord Warwick began to chuckle. “I’ll own Mr. Collins is devilishly funny--for being so utterly self-absorbed and shallow.”
Thank goodness Lord Warwick had laughed. The tenseness in her body uncurled as she joined him in laughter. If only she could think of another humorous character to lighten their banter. “I vow I’ve not enjoyed any characters--except Shakespeare’s--so much,” she said. “I think Taming of the Shrew is my favorite of Shakespeare’s plays because it’s so light.” Turning to his lordship, she added, “I expect being a man, you prefer the tragedies or histories.”
“The histories,” he said.
“And which is your favorite?”
He thought for a moment. “It’s difficult to choose between Richard the Third and Julius Caesar.
“I would think English history much more interesting to an Englishman,” Maggie said.
“But Caesar is intrinsically tied to the history of Britain. We would not be the country we are had his troops not settled here.”
“It’s quite incredible to think Roman soldiers who lived here eighteen hundred years ago left a legacy that’s still evident today,” she said.
He set down his wine glass. “Nowhere is the Roman occupation more apparent than in Bath,” he said. “You must go there sometime.”
“There are many things I wish to see in England, provided I’m ever free of my chains,” she said lightly.
He gave her an apologetic glance. Her stomach tumbled as her gaze flicked from his compelling eyes and over that handsome face that spoke of power and ageless strength. “It shouldn’t be for long,” he said. “It appears Lyle and Aynsley would be only too happy to offer for you, but I would advise you to wait and see how you take at Almack’s.”
“I daresay no man there can be more agreeable than Mr. Lyle or Lord Aynsley,” she said.
Lord Warwick’s brows lowered as he mumbled, “Don’t know what’s gotten into Aynsley. Though he’s two and forty, he appears to be under the illusion he’s twenty years old again.”
“Don’t be so harsh on him, my lord,” Maggie said without malice. “I daresay he’s not courted a woman since he was twenty. It’s only natural that he revert to those youthful ways.”
He gave her a puzzled look but said nothing.
As the dinner came to an end, Maggie addressed her sister. “Would you mind terribly, pet, if Lord Warwick and I resume our chess game tonight?” Maggie was determined to engage her host in an activity that would bring him pleasure.
“I should be delighted to return to my present book,” Rebecca assured her.
“It’s not possible to resume the game,” Lord Warwick said with a frown. “My servants put up all the pieces.”
“But I remember exactly where they all were,” Ma
ggie protested.
A smile curved his lips. “How can I trust you not to set up the board to your own advantage?”
“Very well, my lord,” she said with a mock scowl, “we’ll start a new game--if that is agreeable to you.”
* * *
As he set up the chess pieces he allowed himself to admire her keen memory. It was really quite incredible that she could remember where every piece had stood three nights ago. Were he pressed to do so, or had he studied the configuration before they retired that night, he could be assured of remembering only ninety-five percent of the positions.
Better to admire her memory than to actually glance at her. When she had sat down beside him at the dinner table, he had to force his gaze away from her. Her stunning beauty in the rich ruby red gown that swept low at the neckline had sent his pulse surging. He told himself it was only that the red was extremely becoming with her rich, dark hair for she was more beautiful this night than he had ever seen her before. Yes, he decided, it had to be the red.
As he spooned the soup into his bowl, he had willed himself to picture Fiona’s loveliness, but only a vague, distant picture of her fair blond beauty arose. Damn, it had been too long since he’d seen her. Before Maggie came he had ached to see Fiona, to hear her sweet voice, to enfold her slim body in his embrace, and to marry her and love her to completion. The very thought of his precious Lady Fiona often sent the blood rushing to his groin. But no more.
Now, it was Maggie who summoned vibrant life below his waist. It was Maggie who had invaded his erotic dreams the night before, even though it was Fiona--and only Fiona--whom he loved and always had. Fiona was the only woman he wanted.
Until this week. Damn it.
During the first course of dinner, he alternated between being angry at himself for his carnal weakness and angry with Maggie for giving herself to him. Then he would chastise himself for blaming her. She hadn’t tried to seduce him. Looking back on it, there were so many ways she had innocently ignited his passion leading up to that stormy day in Greenwich. First, she had spoken of her breasts in his presence. But not in a seductive manner. She had discussed them as if she were commenting on the weather. And when she had told him he was some kind of prize, he would vow she said it as innocently as she would comment on the color of his hair.
