“I wouldn’t put it in those words.”
“No, you’re far too polite for that.” His grin widened as he shook his head in mock contrition. “Dear me. I can certainly see why the esteemed Lady Selina Balfour wants nothing to do with me.”
“I didn’t call myself esteemed.”
“But people do esteem you, Selina.” He dropped the grin like a lead weight. “People esteem you in a way they do not esteem me, and – if I’m perfectly honest – I suppose that is why I…”
The carriage came to a halt. Malcolm frowned, closed his mouth abruptly, and looked out of the window. “Here we are. The Loxwell residence.” He pursed his lips and considered Aunt Ursula. “How best to wake her?”
“I’ll do it.” Selina gave her aunt a gentle shake. “Auntie? We’re home.” She settled her face into a smile as Ursula snorted and harrumphed her way back to the waking world. “Let’s get you that glass of sherry.”
“Dear girl,” said Ursula, patting her hand. She nodded approvingly at Malcolm, too. “Dear boy.”
“Auntie, His Grace the Duke of Caversham is not a dear boy.”
“Oh, do let Lady Ursula call me what she likes.” He was smiling, just as falsely as Selina was, though with twice as much verve. “I haven’t been anybody’s dear boy in years.”
Selina only realised how shallow her breathing had been when she and Ursula were handing their wet coats to the butler and the door was firmly closed behind them. She closed her eyes a moment and took a deep breath, wishing she could wipe the memory of the carriage ride from her mind. She rather suspected she would be reliving that unexpectedly frank conversation through the early hours of the morning.
Her brother put his head out of the drawing room door as Aunt Ursula toddled off in search of a change of clothes and her long-awaited sherry.
“Was that Caversham’s carriage that brought you home?” Alexander asked, looking at her curiously.
Selina shook the last of the rain from her hair and joined him in the drawing room. “One of our horses threw a shoe. I never suspected Caversham had a talent for chivalry, and I was right. He was just about to tell me precisely why he so dislikes me when we reached the house.”
Alexander gave her a sympathetic frown. “It must have been a terribly awkward journey.”
Selina let her eyes drift to the window, where the back of Malcolm’s carriage was just visible through the haze of rain as it rounded a corner.
Part of her was still inside that carriage, finding – too late – the words to respond to his accusations of dislike, and she wished it were not.
“I’m afraid I’ll be seeing more and more of him as the Twynham election approaches,” she said. “It’s almost enough to make me give up the scheme entirely.”
“But not quite,” Alexander guessed, with a wry grin.
“No. Not quite.” She turned back to him, smiling triumphantly. “I won’t be beaten, you know. Not by anyone. And especially not by the Duke of Caversham.”
6
“You’re looking cheerful, Caversham,” remarked Lord Louis, as he drained the last of the claret in his glass and motioned a nearby footman to supply him with another. Malcolm sipped his own drink slowly. He was not intending to have more than one; a card party was no place to lose one’s powers of judgement. The ton’s obsession with gambling could ruin a man in the space of an evening. Even one in possession of a fortune as large as Malcolm’s, though that would admittedly take a concerted effort.
Louis had no such qualms. He was a man blessed with an indulgent father and no property of his own to lose. Already half in his cups, he raised his freshly filled glass to toast Malcolm’s smile and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “I’ll wager I can guess what’s got you looking so pleased with yourself.”
“Unless it’s the sunny outlook of the Twynham by-election, you are mistaken.”
Louis frowned. “That’s terribly dry, Caversham. I thought you’d had some luck at last with…” He lowered his voice, attempting an air of mystery. “That other matter we discussed.”
“I have no other matters at hand.” Malcolm prayed that, for once, Louis would learn to take a hint and stop talking. The last thing he wanted was his private business drunkenly dissected in public.
Particularly not at the Earl of Streatham’s card party.
“Lord Streatham!” cried Louis, as their host approached. “What a marvellous evening this is!” He slapped Streatham on the back with his meaty hand. “And you are looking very well, I must say! Marriage suits you!”
“It certainly does.” George Bonneville, Earl of Streatham, had returned from his honeymoon with a sunburned nose and a sparkle in his eyes that Malcolm did not recall being there before.
“Have you met the new Lady Streatham, Caversham?” asked Louis, his cheeks glowing with what was either enthusiasm or an excess of wine. “She’s the wonderful girl who writes such polemics in the London Chronicle.”
“I met her once or twice as Lady Anthea Balfour,” said Malcolm. “Not yet as Streatham’s countess.”
And what a surprise it had been when Streatham landed her. Malcolm had always thought of Streatham as a devil-may-care, insubstantial sort of fellow. He had spent his days idling about Europe until Anthea met him, married him, and launched them both into the heart of the nation’s political scene by penning a series of acerbic articles for the Chronicle.
It seemed the lady wished to do some good in the world, and her husband had transformed under her influence.
“I never took you for an avid reader, my lord,” said Streatham, his handsome brows quirking upwards. Louis laughed, not at all offended.
“Lady Streatham makes it all sound so dashed entertaining, that’s the trouble! I’ve never had much of a head for business, but when she writes about this tax or that riot, it’s all as thrilling as a night at the theatre!”
Pride glowed in Streatham’s eyes. Malcolm felt a strange tug of jealousy as the earl accepted the compliment on his wife’s behalf.
Anthea was a lovely girl, true enough, and as sharp as a tack, but she had never been the Balfour lady most worthy of attention.
“I would love to discuss her latest column with her,” Louis pressed. “If it wouldn’t bore her to death to talk business at a party.”
Streatham beamed. “Not at all. I’m sure she’d be delighted.” He turned, searching the busy card tables for his wife, and waved to a pair of ladies on the other side of the room. Anthea’s attention could not have been far from him, for she saw him at once and began making her way towards them.
With her sister, Selina, on her arm.
“Now see what you’ve done,” Malcolm muttered, glaring at Louis.
“What now?”
He jerked his head towards Selina. “The easiest way to spoil my good temper is an audience with Lady Icicle.”
“If you wished to avoid her, I don’t know what you’re doing at her sister’s card party,” said Louis, reasonably enough. Malcolm had no answer.
Streatham put a hand on Anthea’s waist and guided her into their circle. “I’m afraid you have an admirer on your hands, my darling.” He bent his head close to her ear, his lips almost brushing it. “Another one.”
Anthea laughed and pushed him away, pleasure gleaming in her eyes. Malcolm swallowed his distaste.
So this was what Balfour women did to perfectly sensible men. He was beginning to understand why Selina seemed so disinterested in marriage. Perhaps her aversion to Britain’s power players stemmed from watching them turn to sentimental fools in the hands of her sisters.
He bowed to the ladies politely, but Louis seized Anthea’s hand and kissed it with puppyish adoration. “Lady Streatham! May I congratulate you on your marriage! And on the wonderful success of your column!”
“Don’t ask her which she’s prouder of,” warned Streatham, his hand still resting possessively on his wife’s waist. “I’ll come off worst, I know it.”
“Nonsense,” said Anthea, lay
ing a fond hand on his arm.
“I’m afraid you have no right to complain, George,” said Selina. She hadn’t met Malcolm’s eyes, but was watching the newlywed couple with the light of their happiness reflected in her expression. “You knew from the start that you were getting a wife with ink stains on her fingers.”
“And I couldn’t be happier about it,” he said.
Selina glanced at Malcolm and gave him a light frown, as though surprised to find him watching her. He realised only then how intensely he must have been studying her face. They both quickly looked away.
“Now, Lord Louis,” Anthea was saying, “don’t tell me you have been reading my little column?”
“Reading it? I have all but learned your latest piece by heart!” Louis rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “I would dearly love to know what you are going to write about next!”
“Next?” Anthea exchanged a grin with her husband. “The next one is sitting on my writing desk. You may be the first to see it, if you like.”
Louis looked like a child on Christmas morning. “I should like nothing more!”
“George, you don’t mind doing without me for a moment, do you?”
Streatham bowed. “Your public needs you!”
Anthea took Louis’s arm and led him away, her blush deepening as she listened to his effusions of delight.
“I have never seen my sister looking so content,” said Selina, watching them go. “I am so glad she has you, George.”
“Enough, enough!” he laughed, throwing up his hands. “I am pleased enough with myself already. I shall become insufferable if you say any more.” He bowed to her and to Malcolm. “Do excuse me. I must take a turn about the room and see that everyone is enjoying themselves.”
Perhaps Malcolm had imagined it, but he thought that Streatham paused for a moment before moving on, looking from Malcolm to Selina with an expression that was almost cunning. But the moment was fleeting, and Streatham had departed before Malcolm could make anything of it.
Leaving him alone with Selina.
He half-expected her to find a reason to turn on her heel and find someone else to talk to, but before she could, he heard himself say, “I trust you are well, my lady.”
“Quite well.” She hesitated, glancing about as though searching for an escape, and then raised her eyes to his. “And you?”
“Perhaps you’d join me for a hand of piquet?”
Selina’s dark brows rose by a millimetre. “Thank you, but no. I don’t care for high-stakes gambling.”
“Nor do I.” He cursed himself for pressing it. There were plenty of women who relished his company, weren’t there? Why was he so compelled by the cool glare of the one who had made it perfectly clear she disliked him?
Selina gave him a dry smile. “Then piquet makes an odd choice of game.”
He took a step towards her, his fingers tightening against the cool glass in his hand. Perhaps it was precisely her dislike that enticed him. There was something painfully pleasurable about discovering how much of himself he could inflict on Selina before she pushed him away.
“Neither of us are in need of money. Why don’t we play for something more interesting?” He flashed her the type of smile that never failed to make women simper.
It failed then. But he saw curiosity flicker in her dark gaze.
“Such as?”
“For each point you win, you may ask me a question. For each one I take, I ask you a question.” He went to a nearby empty table and pulled out a chair. “The catch is that you must answer. And answer honestly.”
Selina slid into the chair. His fingers, still holding it, grazed the fichu covering her shoulders as she sat back. It was all he could do not to tug at it, to uncover a little more of that pale skin. He wondered how soft she would feel. A woman so sharp must surely have some soft places, somewhere, if he could only discover them.
He had left his hand there too long. She inclined her neck and looked up at him. He expected a rebuke, but instead found himself pinned by an inquiring pair of almond-shaped eyes.
“How will you know if I am dishonest, Your Grace?”
He removed his hand. He could not do so without touching her more. She was surprisingly warm.
What had he expected? Icicle by name, icicle by nature?
“I will have to trust to your honour.” He took the seat opposite her and picked up the pack of cards, discarding those they did not need and shuffling them with well-practised ease. “Do you accept my terms?”
She paused a moment, her eyes following the fluid motion of the cards in his hands, and she gave a single nod. “And the winner? What prize is at stake?”
“I don’t suppose you’d agree to withdraw your interference in the Twynham election if you lose.”
“Would you?”
“No.” He began dealing the cards. “A token, then. Nothing valuable. Something of the loser’s own choosing.” A slow grin spread over his face. “A symbol of my victory over you. Or yours over me.”
He had intrigued her. She was trying not to show it, but he was learning to read the minute expressions that betrayed her inner thoughts. The slight pursing of those delicate lips, the subtle tilting of her head.
“Very well.” She took up her piles of cards. “Let’s play.”
By the time Selina realised she had been tricked, it was too late.
It was her own folly that led her astray. She’d always thought of Malcolm as less clever than he liked to appear, so when he began losing, it was only what she had expected.
The questions she asked him as she took each point were banal, unimportant. Did he prefer the theatre or the opera? The theatre, as it happened. Was he more likely to be found at Vauxhall Gardens of an evening, or his club? The club, naturally.
But Malcolm answered every question with an easy honesty, his blue eyes never wavering, and by the time Selina was fifty points up, she felt secure.
Then Malcolm won his first point.
“What quality do you admire most in a man?”
Selina’s fingers fumbled as she spread her cards. The intimacy of the question, after so much triviality, caught her off guard.
“What?”
Malcolm set his cards aside and rested his chin on a hand, watching her keenly. “What quality do you admire most in a man?” he repeated. His eyes flared wider, just for an instant. I’ve caught you now, they seemed to say.
Selina pressed her lips together. “Kindness,” she said, eventually, the word forcing itself out reluctantly between her unwilling lips.
“Kindness?”
“The quality of my father which I remember best is that he was always kind.”
“And is your father the only man you have ever admired?”
“You only won one question, Your Grace.”
“True.” He smiled, taking up his cards again. “I shall pray that my luck continues.”
And continue it did. Malcolm won the next point, and the next, and the next. He did not repeat the question she hadn’t answered. It seemed there was no end to the private details he wanted to uncover.
Did she ever feel lonely? Yes, at times. Who in the world did she most wish to emulate? The Duchess of Devonshire, of course, as she’d said before. Her political impact was still felt now, years after her death.
“And you will manage it without the need to become a duchess,” he said, a teasing gleam in his eyes. Selina opened her mouth to protest, but he forestalled her with a shake of his head. “That wasn’t a question. Play on.”
Selina was exasperated, but not surprised, when he won the next point.
“Of which of your siblings are you the most jealous?” he asked, tossing the question out carelessly, as though it did not constitute a betrayal of Selina’s very way of life.
“I am not jealous of any of them.”
“Is that the truth?”
Selina hesitated. “Anthea,” she said, soft and low.
“Because she’s a countess?”
/>
“Because she has earned respect that has nothing to do with her marriage.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Of course.”
He let her win the next one. If he was still trying to conceal his strategy, he was doing a poor job of it. She knew he had let her win.
“Does it please you to provoke me?” she asked, too frustrated to think of anything else.
Malcolm took the question more seriously than she had expected. He rubbed at his chin, and his eyes made their familiar slow progress over her face, down the length of her arms, around the part of her body visible above the card table. “It does.”
She felt that she had taken more of him than she expected, even though she had already known what he would say.
Malcolm swallowed, studying his cards with more care than he had before. The game was nearly at an end. He was several points up, and his next play would win it, if he got it right. Selina was not at all surprised when he did.
What did surprise her was the way he covered her hand with his as she cast her remaining cards aside.
She looked up to find him watching her hungrily, his eyes serious and his rugged jaw tight.
“Have you ever been in love?” he asked.
Selina did not look away. “Yes.”
“When?”
“As a young girl. The year of my first Season.”
“That explains why you never made eyes at me with the rest of them.”
“That is not the only reason.”
His hand still covered hers, large enough to envelop it completely. She felt a latent strength in its gentle pressure that was both a warning and a promise.
“You used to dance in those days, didn’t you?” he asked.
“I did.”
“Never with me.”
“Once or twice with you, though I am not surprised that you have forgotten.”
“This man you loved. What was so special about him that he won you where no other man could?”
“It was not the man himself, in truth, though he was wonderful. I had been a mother to my siblings for so many years after my parents died. At seventeen, it felt like a burden. He was my escape. Love was my escape.”
No Dukes Need Apply (The Impossible Balfours Book 4) Page 4
