An Indiscreet Debutante

by Lorelie Brown

  The difficulty had come when she’d proved adept at hiding.

  Etta, as sweet and gentle as she always was, gave Patricia credit for allowing the mourning period to pass unmolested.

  Ian shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. No marriage certificate. No paper at all among Patricia’s meager belongings. The anger trying to knot his fists would leave Finna scared and confused. There was no reason to take his fury out on any but the intended target.

  Which he would gladly do. “Nothing here.”

  “I see that,” said Miss Vale. Her amusement poked fun at him and how he’d dispensed with the fiction he was looking for Patricia for dutiful reasons. “If you would tell me what you’re looking for, I might be more help.”

  “Find me Patricia.”

  She let silence weave between them, let his words go unchallenged for a long moment. “I’m doing my part.”

  He blew out a rough, gusting breath. “I know.”

  She turned to Finna, who’d watched their interaction with rapt fascination. “As you might guess, Sir Ian here isn’t only on a charitable call for his mother.”

  “Lady Victoria said in class that lies were occasionally acceptable for the benefit of society as a whole.”

  “What is that school of yours teaching?” Ian spat.

  “We teach women what they need to know in order to better their lives.” Miss Vale’s smile turned harsh and a little bitter. “Whatever the cost.”

  “Lovely. Just lovely.” Ian ground his teeth together. “I find myself less and less surprised that a harridan like Patricia found your school. It might be best if the world at large knew.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Her eyes flashed.

  “Try me.”

  Her next words were aimed at Finna, but she kept her gaze trained on him. “Finna, dear. Tell Patricia that I am looking for her. Me. Not this man.”

  “You hide her from me, you’ll be harboring a fugitive.”

  “Words you have yet to prove.” She finally looked at Finna, her expression softening. “I’m very sorry if we’ve put any sort of an imposition on you. And don’t forget to come to the school if Patricia doesn’t come back and you need a new girl.”

  “I will, miss,” Finna said on a hint of a curtsy.

  Miss Vale swept from the room and down the stairs in high dudgeon. The footmen split to allow her past, pressing up against the wall and the decrepit balustrade. Her color was up, red splashes across her high cheekbones turning her into some sort of fiery sprite. The angle of her chin lifted her neck to an imposing arc. She was absolutely and completely furious with him.

  Ian had no intention of telling her that she was rather adorable when in a temper. He hadn’t much association with women who lived wildly or were so free with their emotions. His mother and sister and other women he knew were calm and prepossessed.

  It seemed more and more that Lottie was a force unto herself.

  Chapter Four

  The walk back through the alleys was much shorter than the route they’d taken inward. This time they stopped to chat with no one, nor did Lottie talk to Ian, the smug bastard. She would have stomped if it weren’t for the uneven pavement and the conviction that falling over face first would negate her righteous position.

  She couldn’t indulge in her temper. Couldn’t let it take her over. She’d seen enough of that from her mama to know how foolish and troubling it could be.

  She intentionally calmed her breaths. Made her cheeks pull her mouth into a smile, even if they didn’t want to head that way, because sometimes a smile caused happiness, damn it.

  She refused to hand her life over.

  That also meant she wouldn’t let some stranger malign her girls and accuse her school of harboring bad women.

  By the time she arrived at the carriage, she’d smoothed herself into an approximation of calm. Her blood eased in her veins, and she simply ignored the tight bands around her ribs. She’d not lose control, not in that way. Her happiness was her armor, and she liked it.

  She smiled at Sir Ian. “Where can I drop you off?”

  “You don’t stay angry long, do you?” He put out a hand for her to balance fingertips on as she mounted the stairs of the small black carriage.

  She put her fingers in his, ignoring the tingling rush that swept over her skin and lodged in the damp, hot points behind her ears. When her temper and emotions flared, the rest of her body followed. Anger and lust wrapped up together. More proof it was a good idea to find someone halfway appropriate to slake this want with, before she did something she’d regret all because of raging emotions.

  “I couldn’t,” she said, forcing a laugh. “When one gets as royally furious as me, one can’t afford to cling to the emotion.”

  “Royally furious, eh?” Dark brown hair fell over his brow as he followed her into the cab. “Every woman I’ve met claims they’re incapable of such emotions.”

  “Every woman gets angry,” she scoffed.

  He folded himself into the opposite seat. His knees were skinny, his legs long. She had the impression he was rather like a colt or a puppy. Someone who hadn’t grown into his limbs despite appearing nearly thirty years old. “I never said otherwise,” he continued. “But I’ve found that most of them claim they have the temper of misplaced angels. Even Lady Cotrose.”

  She lifted a single eyebrow. “I don’t know Lady Cotrose.”

  “No, I don’t imagine you would. She’s a country bumpkin like me. Her husband tired of her screeching and screaming and throwing vases at his head.”

  “Are we certain it’s not his fault?” She smoothed her lap so the silken, knotted flower decorations aligned down the outside edge of her thigh. “Certain behaviors could all but demand such a response.”

  “He is known for chewing with his mouth open. A dire, horrid habit, I’m sure. But there was doubt that such habits required him being roomed with the hunting dogs.”

  “Lady Cotrose demanded such?”

  “Hard to tell. She was tied to a tree in the back gardens, so one must assume he decided to sleep with the hounds all on his own.”

  She saw it then, through the dawdling remains of her temper. She’d forced herself to fake good humor, but that wasn’t exactly the same thing as being truly relaxed or happy. So he was teasing her. His eyes were sparking, and the tiniest quirk of a smile lingered on his lips. The way he watched from under canted brow, his chin tucked toward his chest...

  He was having her on.

  She tongued the inside of her teeth, trying to appear as if she was considering the situation. “Did he have a bed installed in the kennels? Or did he sleep on the paving stones?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She made a humming noise and rubbed her thumb over her bottom lip, trying to hide her smile. “It does. Considerably. As much as it matters if Lady Cotrose were tied to the tree with a silken cord. One must observe standards.”

  He wasn’t half so circumspect with his grin. She liked that, liked the way it shone through the carriage. She knew entirely too many people who were afraid to demonstrate emotions, even the pleasant ones. Sometimes she was among them. Rather often, truth be told. “Is that all it takes? Observe the standards and one can get away with anything?”

  “Not even that, most of the time. Take me, for example.”

  “I’m sure most men gladly would.” His eyelids drooped, and if she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought he’d suddenly decided he was interested. She could almost think it involuntary. If he had any idea what that husky tone of voice did, he’d have used it straightaway.

  As it was, she flicked a wry glance from under her lashes and went on with what she’d been saying. “I ignore all the rules. I’m positively wicked. I tell bad jokes, I drink port with the men whenever I can, and I wear the wrong colors. My mother is so mad, she would have given George III a run for his money. And yet curiously, no one has kicked me out of their presence.”

  His cheeks hollowed on a shot of amus
ement. “I can’t imagine why not,” he said with dry aplomb.

  “It’s a mystery, is it not?” She gave him her cheekiest grin.

  Truly, she knew why people put up with her. Money and charm and beauty went a long way, which said ill things of the society she kept. She shouldn’t have started this line of conversation. But it was strange how easy he was to talk to and how their senses of humor meshed. Normally she would only suggest a silk rope to Victoria. Sera would have been shocked.

  “Where are you taking us?” he asked, as if hearing her silent pleading to change the subject.

  “You may take the carriage anywhere you like. I’d drop you myself, but I’m going to be late.”

  “Late for what?”

  She didn’t let the hard jolt of panic that clenched her chest show on her face. “I’m going to have tea with my mother.”

  “The mad one?”

  “The very same.” Her heart leapt into her throat. She wasn’t normally reckless when it came to her mother.

  He let silence spin through the air between them, though the wheels kept churning over rough roads. They came to a halt in traffic, and costermongers and rag-and-bone sellers called out their goods. Outside the window, a boardman had hanging from his shoulders a two-sided ad for the smallest chimneysweeps in London.

  “I’d like to go with you.”

  “No.”

  The carriage turned down Cheyne Walk. She didn’t have much longer before she could wave him away. Time with her mother could be fraught for many reasons, but at least she could always be herself. What parts of herself she wanted to be, that was.

  He leaned forward to look out the window. His collar pulled at the back, revealing skin barely warmed by the sun and the ends of his dark hair. “I wouldn’t have expected you’d live in Chelsea.”

  “My mother insists.” She said the words with a smile and a light air, but that was usually enough. She never had to lie—no one ever bothered to ask further. They took her surface explanations and everything was fine.

  But Ian transferred that intense gaze to her. His mouth stilled for a moment, as his exacting gaze scanned her from head to toe. “And your father? He goes along with her?”

  She swallowed. Once, twice. A strange knot lurked at the back of her throat. The street turned relatively quiet as they drew to a halt before gray stone and the green-painted front door. “What Mother wants, Mother gets.”

  “But you called her mad.” When the door opened, he put one hand out. The footman hardly blinked, but Lottie flinched. He turned his hand, held it palm out. She liked his long, graceful fingers. This was a man who should play the piano. Or a woman.

  “I called her mad because she is.”

  “Insane, you mean?” He leaned forward. “Not angry?”

  She pushed past him and stepped down. The sun was low in the sky. Across the street was the Thames, but before her was the building she both loved and dreaded. She smoothed her skirts. “I meant exactly what I said.”

  “Yet you and your father let her determine where your household resides.” Then he did something she’d never expected—stepped down from the carriage. His top hat tilted at a rakish angle, he looked up at the tall building. “I think I’d like to meet her.”

  “Not a chance in hell.” Her heart flipped in her throat. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Such rudeness.” He smiled a slow-burn grin. “Will you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

  She shook her head, almost frantic. The footman behind Sir Ian had the grace to avert his gaze, as if he didn’t want to witness her explosion. It was no surprise he’d expect her to blow. Everyone treated her like she’d snap at any point, but she knew better. Her mother’s madness hadn’t come until the stress of childbearing, like her grandmother’s. Hence Lottie’s determination to avoid marriage. “No. This isn’t happening. Take yourself away. Right now.”

  Ian wasn’t being kind. That much he knew. But he set one hand at Miss Vale’s spine and gently guided her up the white-painted stairs. She didn’t want to go with him, that was obvious in the way she all but dug her heels in and leaned back. It served only to increase his touch by flattening his fingers against her spine. The curve of her waist was sleek temptation.

  “Would you like me to be honest?”

  Her nose wrinkled with all the abandon of a young girl. “I do generally appreciate it.”

  “My desires have little to do with wanting to meet your mother or be any sort of a bother to you.” He smiled at the butler when the door opened. “I simply don’t trust you.”

  She came to an abrupt halt then, her steps clattering at the threshold. She held a hand up and out as if she’d stop the air. “Perhaps I’m wrong and you’re the one who’s lost all sense of your wits.”

  “How do I know you won’t immediately run out the back of your house and find Patricia? Your loyalty to those who attend your charity—”

  “School,” she insisted. Her cheeks pinched, and her mouth set into a mulish line.

  “So who’s to say you haven’t a plan to warn her at your first opportunity? I’m afraid I can’t let you out of my sight yet. Not until you’ve calmed.”

  Her gaze jerked to the butler who waited inside the foyer. He kept his face pointed straight forward, as if looking through them toward the Thames. The gray-brown rush of water was nearly obscured by trees, but the salt-and-pepper-haired man seemed to find it fascinating.

  Or he was an expert in ignoring awkward situations.

  “Martin.” Miss Vale greeted him with a brief nod. “Is my mother well today?”

  “I believe so, miss.”

  “Fine.” Miss Vale swept forward, away from Ian’s touch. His fingertips tingled with the need to get her back, but that wasn’t likely. Not with the haughty lift of her chin and the way she all but spit when she addressed him again. “You’re in luck. I’ve decided it’s simply easier to have you to tea than to deal with your incessant whining when my men throw you out bodily.”

  He followed along behind her, stacking both his hands flat across his own back. No touching. Not her. Not that long, graceful sweep of her spine into neck and the delicate knots there. Her reddish hair had been swept and pinned up haphazardly enough that a wisp fell out to touch her collarbone.

  “Just curious, but if you have me thrown out of the house, how would you be able to hear my whining?”

  “I notice you don’t deny that there would be such.” That impish good humor was back in her expression. Her smile curved, her body canted toward him.

  How much of it was real and how much was falsified? A fake designed to ease everyone around her and deflect. The curious part was what she hid. If she could so boldly admit insanity in her family, what could possibly be left as an enigma?

  He wanted to peel her apart, see what mysteries she kept for someone with such a bold mouth. Truths could hide the deepest secrets.

  But he didn’t have time for such nonsense. Etta still waited at their family home in Devon, along with his mother. If he knew them both, they’d be working each other into frenzied balls of worry. They were good women and didn’t deserve to have to fret the way they were. No one deserved to be blackmailed by a piece of trash like Patricia, much less his sweet, kindhearted baby sister.

  Ian intended to do whatever was necessary to ease her heart. Best-case scenario would involve seeing Patricia in wrist and leg irons, marching into the bowels of a dank prison.

  “Whether I whine or not is beside the issue.” He felt his mouth quirk, thought of her skin and the way she’d taste under his lips. “What matters is that we’re going to take a lovely tea en famille.”

  She shook her head as she pushed open a pocket door. “This certainly isn’t a public sort of occasion.”

  That much was apparent when she stepped in and revealed the room. At some point, the position and airy windows on the front street said it had likely been a parlor. The sofa toward the far end lent credence to the idea, as well as the marble-surrounded fireplace
.

  But that’s where the similarities to normal decorating ended.

  The whole room was soft. A giant jumble of cloth and fabric and large pillows that had been stripped from the beds of giants. The entire south wall was covered in fabric, starting at the plaster medallion in the center of the ceiling and falling in gathers of pale, pale yellow. A line of half-done paintings leaned along the edge of the wall. They’d been stacked while still wet, as many had drag marks through the oil paint. Whoever had painted them lacked focus, as seven different subjects ranged widely from landscapes to nudes.

  It took him a moment to spot Miss Vale’s mother, mostly because she was curled up in the corner of the room. If it weren’t for the fact that she were on a cushion only four inches off the ground, she might have been any woman of leisure in the afternoon. She had a pile of books at her elbow and another open in her hands as she flipped through speedily.

  “Mama,” Miss Vale said, with a French-like accent on the second syllable. “I’ve brought company. Lady Vale, allow me to present Sir Ian Heald.”

  Lady Vale looked up, her eyes slightly unfocused as she flipped onward two more pages, as if she weren’t able to switch activities. Then she grinned. She stood with a surprising amount of grace, tucking her pale yellow dressing gown around her waist and retying a lace sash.

  “Oh, Lottie. You really shouldn’t have. I’m not dressed.” The protest seemed unauthentic from the avid way she inspected Ian from head to toe. “Though if one must be seen half dressed, how fortunate it should be by an attractive man. Perhaps you should leave me with him, Lottie. Better that than endure such strangely mixed company.”

  Ian bowed. It was either that or gape at the woman.

  Lottie’s response was curiously absent. Her lips still bent upwards in a smile, but there was something about it that looked un-right. She was only half there. It was her eyes, he was fairly sure. The bright spark that drove her normally had fled. The tiniest dots of red color flushed the tops of her cheeks, below thick lashes. “Mama, have you ordered tea yet?”