by Eloisa James
“She claimed a mouse ran up her leg.”
“That is highly improbable,” he remarked, a sardonic light in his eyes. “Lady Portmeadow is notorious for her frugality, and not even mice care to starve.”
“Miss Cernay’s claim is not the point,” Merry explained. “She was likely groped by Lord Ma— by someone, and fainted from pure shock. Or perhaps she feigned a swoon to avoid further indignities. Either way, I promise you that an American lady would have taken direct action.”
He unfolded his arms and his eyes narrowed. “Am I to infer that you know who this blackguard was because he groped you as well?”
“‘Grope’ is perhaps too strong,” Merry said, noticing the air of menace that suddenly hung about those large shoulders. “‘Fondle’ would be more accurate.”
Her clarification didn’t improve matters. “Who was it?” he demanded. His brows were a dark line.
She certainly didn’t want to be responsible for an unpleasant confrontation. “I haven’t any idea,” she said, fibbing madly.
“I collect that you did not faint.”
“Certainly not. I defended myself.”
“I see,” he said, looking interested. “How did you do that, exactly?”
“I stuck him with my hat pin,” Merry explained.
“Your hat pin?”
She nodded, and showed him one of the two diamond hat pins adorning the tops of her gloves. “In America, we pleat silk gloves at the top and thread a hat pin through. They hold up your gloves, but they can also be used to ward off wandering hands.”
“Very resourceful,” he said with a nod.
“Yes, well, the lord in question might have squealed loudly,” she told him impishly. “Everyone might have turned around to look. And I might have patted his arm and said that I knew that boils could be very troublesome. Did you know, by the way, that a treatment of yarrow is used for boils, but it will also stop a man’s hair from falling out?”
She could feel herself turning pink. He had no need of that remedy. Although cropped short, his hair was quite thick, as best she could see on the shadowy balcony.
But he gave a deep chuckle, and Merry relaxed, realizing that it was the first time all week—perhaps even all month—she felt free to be herself. This man actually seemed to like it when a bit of information escaped from her mouth.
“Happily, I am ignorant about boils,” he said. “Are American ladies typically knowledgeable about such matters?”
“I can’t help recalling facts,” she confessed. “It’s a sad trial to me because it’s hard to remember in time that they ought not to be shared.”
“Why not?”
The corners of the man’s stern mouth had tipped upward in a most beguiling fashion. In fact, she found herself starting to lean toward him before she caught herself.
“There are few acceptable topics of conversation in London. It is quite wearying to try to remember what one is allowed to discuss,” she said with some feeling.
“Bonnets, but not boils?”
He must be something of a rake, Merry decided. The way his eyes laughed was very alluring.
“Exactly,” she said, nodding. “British ladies are discriminating conversationalists.”
“Don’t tell me you have ambitions to master the art of saying nothing.”
Merry laughed. “I fear I shall never become an expert at fashionable bibble-babble. What I truly dislike,” she said, finding herself confiding in him for no reason other than the fact that he seemed genuinely interested, “is that—”
She stopped, realizing that the subject was leading her to insult his countrymen. She was still a guest in this country, at least until she married Cedric; she should keep unfavorable opinions to herself.
The expression in his eyes was intoxicating, if only because no one else she’d met was interested in the impressions that an American had of their country. She loved London, if only for its marvelous public gardens, but there were aspects of polite society that she found tiresome.
“It’s the way people speak to each other,” she explained, choosing her words carefully. “They are clever, but their cleverness so frequently seems to take the form of an insult.”
Merry felt her cheeks growing warm. He must think her a complete simpleton. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate a witticism. But so very many remarks come at someone’s expense.”
He frowned at that. “Such people talk nothing but nonsense, and you should ignore them,” he ordered.
“I can’t, but I am learning to control my temper.”
“I believe I’d like to see you in a passion.”
“You may mock me if you like, sir, but I can tell you that it is perishingly difficult for an American to transform herself into the perfect English lady! You should try it.”
He had a very appealing dent in his cheek when he smiled. “I’m quite sure I would fail. For one thing, I wouldn’t look anywhere near as appealing in a gown as you do.”
He was right about that. He was uncommonly large. Of course, so was she: much taller than any lady had a right to be, as Miss Fairfax had remarked any number of times.
“Do you, in fact, know why Americans add tea to their milk rather than the other way around?” he asked, returning to her earlier claim.
“Because it is the correct way to do it, of course,” she said, twinkling at him.
He shook his head. “Here’s a fact for you. Your countrymen add boiling tea to their milk in order to scald it, in case its quality is not all one would wish.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake,” she cried. “Don’t tell me you’re as ignorant of Americans as everyone else at this ball! My aunt’s housekeeper would die of humiliation before she would serve milk that wasn’t absolutely fresh.”
“Then why do Americans put milk in their cup first?”
“It tastes better. The only reason English people do the reverse is to demonstrate that their china is of the very best quality and won’t break. Inferior china cracks immediately if you pour in scalding water without first cooling it with milk. And before you ask, we Bostonians drink from the very best Chinese porcelain.”
Rats. She’d been waving her hands about, which was one of the habits she was determined to curb. Cedric had mentioned once that ladies should not resemble Italian opera singers.
The way this gentleman could smile with only his eyes was quite . . .
She really should return to the ballroom before she did something foolish. “If you will excuse me, sir, I must allow my dance partner to find me.” She gave him a smile. “Or rather, fetch me. I’ll bid you good night.”
When he still didn’t move, she began to edge around him.
“Do satisfy my curiosity,” he said softly. “Why on earth did American gentlemen leave you free to voyage to England and enjoy our season?”
He had no business looking at a betrothed woman with that gleam in his eye, though of course he was unaware she was engaged, since her diamond was concealed by her glove. He took a step toward her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body.
And then his eyes moved to her mouth, for all the world as if he were as consumed by desire as Bertie used to be.
That was a nonsensical comparison, because he was an English gentleman and even a fool could tell that this man had complete control over himself and his emotions.
His eyes moved lower still, to her gloved hands. He frowned. “Are you married?”
“No!” she said hurriedly. “The truth is . . . The truth—” She should tell him that she had become betrothed to Cedric that very evening. But for some reason she blurted out a different truth.
“I earned myself a reputation.”
He stared at her for a second. “You surprise me.”
“Not that sort of reputation! It’s just that I—well—to be honest, I have fallen in love more than once. But I wasn’t truly in love, because each time I came to see that it had been a terrible mistake. I had to break off two betrothals.”
He sh
rugged. “You’ve learned a valuable lesson about that overrated emotion, love. Why should that earn you a reputation?”
“I’m appallingly inconsistent,” she explained. “I truly am. I made a particularly regrettable choice with my second fiancé, who was far more interested in my fortune than my person. He sued me for breach of promise, and everyone learned of it.”
“Surely that speaks ill of him, not you,” he said, clearly amused.
“There was nothing funny about it,” she said tartly. “Dermot had borrowed on his expectations. That is, the expectation that he would marry me.”
“Did the suit go to trial? I can’t imagine that a jury would award damages to such a b—” He stopped. “Such a blackguard.”
“Oh, it didn’t go that far. My uncle settled the case. But I’m afraid that the news spread, and because I’d broken off my previous betrothal, there are those who said that I am . . .”
“Chronically faithless?”
And, at her nod, “What happened to your first fiancé?”
“Bertie had a lovely nose, but he was terribly bellicose,” she confessed.
“I have never thought much about noses,” the gentleman observed. He bent slightly to look at her nose, almost touching her.
Merry’s mouth went dry. He smelled wonderful, like starched linen and wintergreen soap. She licked her bottom lip, and for a second his eyes caught there before he rocked upright. He looked completely unmoved, whereas Merry’s heart had started pounding in her chest.
“Your nose is quite lovely,” he said.
“As is yours,” she blurted out. It was. Merry was something of a connoisseur, and his nose wasn’t too sharp or too narrow or too wide. It was just right.
“Still, I could be bellicose,” he suggested.
Merry felt a sense of breathless pleasure that almost made her giggle. “Have you engaged in any duels?” she asked, putting on a severe expression.
“Not one.”
“Bertie had two.”
“That seems—”
“During the first month we were betrothed,” she clarified.
“Perhaps he was provoked?” There was something thrilling in his eyes. “I can imagine that a man betrothed to you would not take kindly to other gentlemen’s attentions.” His eyes stayed, quite properly, on her face, and yet her entire body prickled with heat. “I expect you garner quite a lot of attention,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t blame Bertie for wanting to keep you all for himself.”
Merry’s pulse was beating so quickly that she could hear it in her ears, like a river rushing downhill. “Both opponents had accidentally jostled him in the street,” she managed. “The duels had nothing to do with me.”
“Bellicose, indeed,” he murmured.
His voice enveloped her like a warm cloak, and Merry had the sudden dizzying idea that the balcony had broken away from the rest of the house, leaving the two of them stranded on a dark, warm sea.
“When I returned his posy ring, I thought I might be challenged,” she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
“He gave you a posy ring? In England those are exchanged between young girls. An apprentice might give one to his sweetheart.”
“It was quite pretty,” she said, defending Bertie. “The flowers spelled out my name.”
“Really,” he drawled. Somehow, she didn’t know quite how, he had eased even closer to her. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek. “How in the hell does a posy spell anyone’s name?”
“With the language of flowers,” she said, starting to babble. “Each flower means something, so you communicate as if you were speaking French.” Her voice faltered because his dark eyes were so intent. “Or something,” she whispered, her voice just a thread.
A sudden burst of music sounded from the ballroom and Merry jumped. “I should—”
“But first you must tell me the rest of the story.”
Something about his voice commanded obedience, and even though Merry never allowed herself to be ordered about, she found herself answering. “It’s not merely a story,” she said, giving him a little frown. “I was heartbroken to return Bertie’s ring. And Dermot’s as well.”
“So you returned Dermot’s posy as well.”
“He didn’t give me a posy,” Merry said, biting back a smile. “He was very proud of his golden hair, and so he had a ring made from it.”
A moment of dead silence followed, and then the gentleman threw back his head and roared with laughter.
Dermot’s lawsuit had been so unpleasant that Merry tried never to think of their betrothal, but laughter made the pinch of humiliation easier to take.
“So you came to London as a result,” he said, finally.
“My aunt feared that no one would wish to marry me.” She shouldn’t be on a balcony, in the dark, talking to a man like this. She should tell him that a gentleman had, indeed, asked for her hand and she had accepted.
“Your aunt undervalues your charms. I am certain that most men in America would simply assume that you had yet to meet the right man. And that when you did, you would settle as happily as a bird in its nest.”
His eyes were on her unfashionably full lips, and then they drifted down to her equally unfashionable bosom, covered by little more than a few twists of rosy silk.
She took a deep breath, which didn’t help things because she caught a whiff of starched linen again and, beneath that, something more elusive, more compelling. Male. Color was rising in her cheeks, so she fixed her eyes on his jaw.
“In my opinion, it wouldn’t matter if you had discarded three or thirty fiancés,” he stated.
When she ventured to glance back at his eyes, she saw that he was addressing her forehead in a most proper fashion. All the same, the roughness in his voice sent a wanton thrill down Merry’s legs. She suddenly imagined him rumpled and sweaty, his chest heaving.
Her own foolishness was like a shower of cold water. What on earth was she doing? “Thank you,” she said, nodding madly. “That is kind of you, and it has been a pleasure to converse.” Without further ado, she stepped around him and turned toward the ballroom.
A large hand curled around her waist, neatly spinning her about and bringing her up against him.
Sensations skittered through her at the press of a hard male chest against hers. Miss Fairfax would have been appalled. Yet rather than pull away, Merry froze, looking up at him with her heart pounding in her ears.
“Who groped you?” he demanded.
“Who had made you so angry before you came onto the balcony?” she countered. What—or who—on earth would enrage a man like this?
“My fool of a brother. And now I’d like you to answer my question.”
She had already forgotten what he had asked. His gaze was so intense that she felt confused and flushed. She would never allow a man—a complete stranger—to kiss her, if that’s what he was contemplating.
“What was your question?” she asked, wincing inwardly when her voice came out as breathless as a siren’s.
“Who groped you?” he repeated.
He had that warrior look in his eyes that Merry found absurdly compelling. She came out with the truth before she could think better of it. “Lord Malmsbury . . . Lord Malmsbury lets his hands stray where they shouldn’t.”
“Stay away from him,” he said, scowling.
“I appreciate your concern,” Merry said with dignity as she pulled free and stepped back, “but there’s no call to order me about. I have already decided to avoid his lordship—not that he has shown the slightest inclination to deepen our acquaintance, thanks to my hat pin.”
“Between your weapon and his boils, I doubt he will risk further encounters.” His smile reappeared. “I trust that after we are formally introduced, I may request a dance, if I promise not to grope you.”
It occurred to Merry that she would rather like to be groped by this man. It was an appalling realization. She was betrothed.
He executed a perfect bow.
She dropped a curtsy, and this time did Miss Fairfax’s instruction proud, nearly grazing the ground with her knee.
Merry walked back into the ballroom without looking back; no matter what her governess thought, she possessed self-control. Plenty of it.
She had almost reached the other side of the room before she turned her head and looked back.
He was nowhere in sight.
She took a seat along the wall and gave herself a good talking-to. What on earth was she thinking? Was she truly as fickle as the gossips back home believed? She might have made mistakes choosing her first two fiancés, but she had never been truly capricious.
She had truly believed that she was in love with both Bertie and Dermot. She had never flirted with a man while betrothed to another.
Not that she had precisely flirted with this man.
All right, she had flirted.
Merry groaned silently. Why hadn’t she slapped him when he caught her around her waist, or at the least announced her status as a soon-to-be married woman? Instead, she had just looked up at him like a silly widgeon waiting to be kissed.
No wonder he’d been so amused. He likely thought her the veriest green girl, knocked head over heels by the magnificence of his black-clad presence.
It was all so embarrassing.
The next time she encountered him, she would have to emphasize that she was in love, and had scarcely given their conversation a second thought. Perhaps she would say something like, Oh, we’ve met, have we not? I declare, I forgot all about it!
“There you are, m’dear,” her aunt said, appearing before her. “Cedric came by with a glass of wine for you.” Bess thrust a brimming glass into Merry’s hand. “The boy is endlessly considerate, I must say.”
“Thank you,” Merry said.
“He returned to the card room with your uncle,” Bess said. “You’ll see him later; we’ll be taking your beau home in our carriage, because his vehicle threw an axle or something of that sort. You should have seen how graciously he accepted your uncle’s offer. His manners are just miraculous! Why, he’s as polished as wax.”
“‘As polished as wax,’” Merry repeated, pulling herself back together. That conversation on the balcony meant nothing. She’d probably never meet the man again. “Aunt Bess, that doesn’t make any sense. You use wax to polish things.”
