Someone Wanton His Way Comes

by Caldwell, Christi

  “Following our last meeting”—the one where he’d pinned her to a tree and had his leg between hers . . . He found himself staring at a point just beyond the top of her head—“I had much time to think about what you said. That is, regarding the weekly meetings which occur at my household.”

  His gaze flew back to hers. “You are closing your club.” Well, this was even better than he’d anticipated. He’d be able to go about his business of finding a—

  “Society.” She frowned. “We are a society. And no, I’m not shutting down the Mismatch Society. Just the opposite. We intend to grow our membership.”

  Splendid.

  “However, we have adjusted some of our policies, which had previously been resolute.”

  Hope stirred. This was interesting . . . and faintly promising. “Indeed?”

  “Following your visit and, more specifically, our meeting in Hyde Park . . .” He did not imagine the faint pink blush that delicately splotched her cheeks, indicating that even for her assuredness around him this day, she, too, recalled their embrace. “It is not your fault that you wished for our group to be shuttered. You couldn’t have any idea of the important exchanges that take place amongst our members. It also occurred to me that we might just as much learn from you as you could stand to learn from us.”

  What, exactly, was she saying? “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Sylvia.”

  “We’ve decided to allow the very brief, and very temporary, membership of a male member.” Sylvia smiled. “And I’d like to congratulate you on being our first and only honorary male member.”

  And just like that all his hopes of an uncomplicated closure of that society were lost.

  Bloody hell.

  Sylvia had spent the night working herself up for this very visit . . . and not because she believed she’d fail in securing Clayton’s cooperation.

  But because of their kiss.

  Nay, what they’d shared in that copse in Hyde Park hadn’t been a kiss.

  Kisses were chaste.

  Kisses were curt and usually wet and entirely unmoving.

  Or that was what they’d been with Norman, anyway.

  Not a single embrace she’d shared with her husband had managed to curl her toes and burn her up with heat. Nor had his touch or caress caused that throbbing wetness that had settled between her legs yesterday.

  She’d thought there would be awkwardness.

  Fortunately, however, there’d been no awkwardness. In fact, there’d been no indication that they had in any way shared that embrace that had seen them doused in the mercilessly frigid Serpentine.

  But then there’d always been an ease between them. A comfortableness that went back to her first Season—those days when they’d so often found themselves seated across from one another at a whist table.

  That reminder erased all the nervousness she’d felt at having to face Clayton again after she’d behaved like a wanton with him, and brought her back to the reason for her being here.

  “You are speechless,” she supplied when he still didn’t say anything.

  “I . . . uh . . .” That thought from Clayton went unfinished.

  She would take that as a yes, then. “You’re flattered?” she predicted, favoring him with a smile.

  “Given our last discussion about my opinion of your society, I confess I am rather at a loss,” he replied.

  “You were determined to shut us down, Clayton.” At the time, she’d been so overcome by indignation to not consider there might have been value to his presence there. For her. For Vallen. For all the other ladies who were at risk of being barred from attending.

  Clayton rubbed the back of his neck. “And . . . that is somehow grounds for admission?”

  From his wrinkled brow on down to the hesitancy of his speech, he was flummoxed. She couldn’t help it. Sylvia laughed, that free, robust sound that had made her mother wince and that she, as a result, had fought to stifle over the years. And that after her husband’s death she’d thought to never again know. And yet now, numerous times with Clayton, she had.

  Clayton looked at her a moment, and then he joined in.

  His whole frame shook, sending his knee jolting against hers.

  “You’re teasing me. I forgot your tendency to do that,” he said after his amusement had abated.

  Her smile faded. “I’m not teasing you. Not about this. I’m serious.” Sylvia looked him square in the eye. “Deadly so.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “It is just the opposite. We’ve decided there are benefits to allowing you entry to our society, and I’m here to extend that invitation.”

  “What possible benefits could there be in having me there, Sylvia?”

  He was humble.

  And also straightforward in ways that her late husband and most men were not. Gentlemen tended to prevaricate, offering pretty words and ways around what should just be up-front and direct speech. Sylvia appreciated that forthrightness. Her days of attempting to sort out what a person truly meant or did not mean had come and gone.

  With that in mind, she launched into the argument that she’d gone over in her mind both last evening when sleep had eluded her and this afternoon on her carriage ride over. “As you’re aware, gentlemen are going about trying to shutter our society.”

  “And?”

  He really didn’t see. “And,” she said, as patient as she would be when explaining something complicated to Vallen, “your attendance can only help the Mismatch Society.”

  “I . . . see.”

  And yet, oddly, by the befuddled little glint in his deep-blue eyes, she somehow doubted that. She sighed. He really needed her to spell it out. And here men were allowed to rule the world, when all the while the ladies had to handle the strings, helping them along. “You really aren’t aware of your influence, are you, Clayton? You are very well respected and honorable; you are friends with rogues and gentlemen alike. You don’t have an enemy amongst the bunch. As such, when you join our ranks, it shows your peers that there is nothing to be threatened by. The Mismatch Society can only benefit from your being there.”

  He scrubbed a hand down the side of his face.

  And she narrowed her eyes . . . as it hit her. “Why, you still believe the society should be shut down.”

  A blush turned his cheeks a ruddy shade of red. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. You did that thing with your hand and your face.”

  “What thing with—?”

  Sylvia gave him a look, halting him midmovement of that very action. “It’s the same one you give when you don’t approve or seek to hide something. Like that time I suggested we sneak off and sample Lady Clermont’s French brandy.”

  “It was the middle of the ball.”

  “Or when I challenged Lord and Lady Castlerock to their entire pot and ours at the game of hazard?”

  “It was a terrible wager,” he muttered.

  “That we won,” she felt inclined to point out.

  “That is neither here nor there.”

  “Yes, you are right,” she agreed. They had gone into the weeds here. And she’d inadvertently moved them away from the sole purpose of this exchange. “You do disapprove.” Sylvia couldn’t keep the hurt from creeping in. She’d simply—and erroneously—believed he’d come to trust the purpose of the society when he found her and his sisters at the center of it.

  His features were pained. “Does it matter whether or not I approve or disapprove, Sylvia?”

  It didn’t. And yet somehow . . . it still did. Because when she’d set out to request his help, there hadn’t been a thought in her mind that he would reject her plea. The friend of long ago would have automatically lent his support. Instead, she made herself say, “I suppose not.”

  Because, ultimately, he was correct. It didn’t matter what he thought of her or her society. What did matter, however, was the perception of his approval. The rest would come later, when he joined their ranks and saw
the good that did, in fact, exist.

  “Our membership, as you know, has disavowed the state of marriage, and yet, we’ve not heard the other perspective. Your perspective.”

  “Mine?” he echoed, his expression blank.

  She nodded. “Yours. Of course, we can invite any number of gentlemen—”

  “Thank you,” he said with a droll twist to those two words.

  “But as someone I know and trust, you also happen to be related to almost a quarter of my membership, and as such, you are the safest.”

  Clayton snorted. “I don’t know whether I’m insulted or honored.”

  “Oh, honored.” Sylvia smiled up at him. “You are most definitely honored,” she said, resting a hand upon his knee to deliver him a reassuring pat.

  That movement so reflexive. So very natural. As automatic as drawing in breath and exhaling it out the next. And yet, at the same time . . . it was scandalous, too.

  Her touching him.

  Her being alone with him here.

  Remove your fingers from his person this instant. It helped that those directives pealed around her mind in the tones of her prim and proper mother.

  But it didn’t help enough to make her draw back her palm and cease touching him.

  Just the opposite.

  In another reflexive movement, Sylvia curled her fingers into that hard flesh, those small digits barely budging the solid brick of muscle.

  Her husband had been wiry. Lean to the point of gaunt. And not at all powerful as this man whom she now touched was.

  Just then, the smooth wool fabric jumped under her palm, and, blushing, she managed to guide her hand back to her lap. For good measure, to keep herself from any further boldness, she clasped her palms.

  Mayhap he’d not even noticed that forwardness.

  She stole a sideways peek up at Clayton.

  His heavy features were pained; had it been her brazen touch? Or the question that still hung in the air between them?

  Reaching for the reticule at her feet, Sylvia fished out the folded sheet written in Valerie’s hand. She held it over.

  Clayton eyed it a moment. His gaze went to Sylvia’s before moving guardedly back to the note she still held.

  She shook the sheet, and he jumped. “It’s words on paper. It’s not going to bite you.”

  “Many men would say words on paper have proven at various points in history more dangerous than any physical threat.”

  That wasn’t incorrect. “Take it, Clayton,” she said impatiently.

  Mumbling to himself, he unfolded the sheet and proceeded to scan his gaze along the words she and the other members of the society had crafted.

  Several moments later . . . he was still reading.

  Sylvia peered down at the handful of sentences there, hardly enough to merit this lengthy break in dialogue.

  Invitation and Requirements for Honorary Membership.

  Clayton Kearsley, Viscount St. John, has been approved as an honorary and temporary member.

  Membership is to commence immediately, and your presence is requested each Tuesday and Thursday of every week for a period of one month.

  The Viscount St. John is expected to share with his peers the goings-on of the Mismatch Society, as specifically allowed him and agreed upon by the membership.

  Any information that is not approved but revealed to society at large will result in immediate expulsion.

  “Ahem.”

  At last, he looked up. And by the endearing little pucker between his brows, he was as befuddled as he’d been before.

  Sylvia leaned in and whispered, “This is generally where you explain how honored you are and say you’re looking forward to your first meeting.”

  Clayton neatly folded the official document along its crease. When he spoke, he did so with measured words, as if he had carefully picked out and delicately handed over each one. “Please, let me begin by saying I am both grateful and deeply honored by your invitation.”

  She frowned. “This has the sounds of a declination.”

  “But I must decline.” He confirmed that supposition. Clayton held over the note.

  That was it? A handful of pretty words was all he thought to turn over for his rejection?

  Sylvia refused to take the paper. Just as she refused to accept his eminently polite but wholly unacceptable no. “Why?”

  “I can’t attend your meetings.”

  He’d said no. It should not surprise her, given the fact that he already had such a low opinion of her society that he’d come around to shut it down. And yet, this was Clayton. Clayton wasn’t the manner of man to treat a person differently because of their gender. It was why he’d kept company with Sylvia’s wallflower self when she made her Come Out years earlier. Sylvia made no move to take the page. She was not letting him off that easy. “And whyever not?”

  This time, there was a pained look to his features. “Because I have responsibilities.” There was the matter of him finally getting to the business of finding a wife and securing his family’s future. “Because it isn’t proper. Because—”

  Storming to her feet, Sylvia snatched the page from his fingers. “Because we are female,” she finished, glaring down at him. Angry with him for being like the others. And even angrier for allowing herself to be disappointed by and in a man, yet again. “I expected different from you.”

  Clayton stood. A frown settled on his heavy features. “It isn’t that, Sylvia.”

  For survival’s sake, Sylvia opted to believe it was what she said, and that also helped refocus her on the sole reason for her presence this day. “I wanted to again speak on how . . . your sisters and I will expressly benefit from your presence at our meetings.”

  Clayton folded his arms at that barrel-wide chest. “Go on,” he said warily.

  Encouraged by that first real sign of engagement, she went on. “We’ve earned increasingly unfavorable attention from members of Polite Society.” Specifically, gentlemen. Small-minded, arrogant gentlemen. Although with his arrival earlier in the week he’d demonstrated a similar thinking to those gentlemen, he was not like them. Their shared past together, along with the support he showed by allowing his sisters to attend the Mismatch meetings, was proof enough of that.

  “And you are concerned with the unfavorable opinions you’re receiving?” He sounded genuinely confused, only highlighting the fact of their past friendship. Because he knew she was not one who cared much about gossip.

  And that there was a luxury Clayton, along with every man of every station, was afforded. A luxury no woman had: the ability to care or not care about opinions. Sylvia threaded her needle carefully. “Women are expected to be above reproach in every way. Ladies are expected to conduct themselves in a way that is seen as flawless. Having one’s own opinions about life and institutions and politics and . . . and simply living are luxuries we are not permitted.”

  His gaze held hers. And within those deep, endless blue depths, she felt the connection. She felt him hearing her when not even her own mother did. As unfair as it was. As wrong as it was.

  Resentment brought her mouth firming into a hard line. “I don’t want to care, Clayton.” She really didn’t give a jot what opinions the world carried about her. “But at the same time, I have to.” Yes, she was in the unfortunate position of having to care. Because of her son. Because of Vallen. However, she held herself back from mentioning him. Because she’d not secure Clayton’s cooperation by invoking her son’s name. No, even as she’d explain why she and the others had issued the invitation, she would not have Clayton come out of pity. She’d have him there because he wanted to be there.

  Sylvia felt Clayton move his stare over her face. That smart, gentle gaze that looked at her. Truly looked at her. And that allowed her to ground herself and share with this man all the resentment that she had long carried, a resentment that had been exacerbated after she’d become a mother.

  The tension left her jaw, and she angled herself so she might bette
r face him. “When”—I—“women flout the rules of convention and society, their suitability as mothers and caregivers are called into question.” As her mother had warned when Sylvia had moved out of her townhouse and in with Annalee and Valerie.

  His gaze sharpened, and he drew up straighter. “Has someone threatened your claims to Vallen?” he asked, his tone sharper than she’d ever heard it. Because of her.

  “No. Not . . .” Directly. But implicitly. If she said as much, if she indicated it was a possibility, she’d no doubt he would intervene and involve himself. She, however, didn’t want him . . . that way. “Women have to be above reproach on everything. Even when they are doing something as simple as meeting with other people and sharing their views on society and existing institutions within that society, they run the risk of being deemed unfit. A wanton. A blight on society. All the while, men are permitted all those freedoms, whereas women have to acquiesce by establishing the veneer of respectability that society deems appropriate by having a man.” She gestured to him.

  “Me.”

  “You,” she confirmed. “Provide validation. And if that means extending my membership to you, Clayton, so that the male members of society can have their fragile confidence and even more fragile egos massaged, then I’ll do it. Because unfortunately my reputation, and the other ladies’ reputations, do matter. And as such, if we have to entertain doing things repulsive to us, like asking you to report back out to the world at large about who we are and what we are doing, then I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you for that,” he said dryly.

  “Even there.” She pounced. “What I’m speaking to you about shouldn’t offend, and that certainly shouldn’t be the focus of what you heard from what I shared. Do I like you? Of course I do, Clayton. But I would be lying if I didn’t express my frustration at having to care whether or not Polite Society approves of the Mismatch Society.”

  “Sylvia . . .”

  “You cannot do it,” she finished bluntly. “That is your decision. I’ll not ask you again, and neither would I allow someone to join our membership who doesn’t wish to be there.”