Chapter 4
Chapter Four
T he dowager Marchioness of Huxley was… nice. She sat prim and proper across a small distance from him, a teacup curled in her hands. Much too young to be a widow, but life often made what it pleased of people, without asking what they wanted.
Samuel shifted in the too-small chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. They seemed to have run out of conversational topics. How long had it been since either of them had uttered a word?
Much. Too. Long.
He glanced at Lottie across the room. She sat in comfortable conversation with Lady Templeton and Andromeda. Lottie had insisted three others besides himself and the marchioness was the perfect number of people to chaperone a courtship. One other made the meeting’s purpose too obvious, and more than three perhaps put too much pressure on both of them to talk with others. This way, they made almost even groups of two and three, the unbalanced nature of those numbers meant to appear natural.
Should he have known all that? About numbers and pressure and courtship?
Likely. He’d thought the whole business down to a man and a woman and perhaps another man or two to encourage a bit of healthy jealousy.
Perhaps he should ask Lady Huxley’s thoughts on the matter. No. Daft notion, that. It should be as easy to speak with her as it had been to speak with the moon maiden last night. But kissing a stranger apparently came easier than conversing with the woman he might marry.
Not good.
“Your Grace?” Lady Huxley cleared her throat and stroked a tiny curl slicked against her temple. Her brown locks were cropped close and wrapped round with a bright blue ribbon. The style out of fashion but charming. It suited her.
“Yes?”
She winced, and he did, too. Too eager, that response, too loud. He cleared his throat, tried again.
“Yes, Lady Huxley?” There. Much better.
“I was wondering if you have any hobbies. Drawing, music? Boxing perhaps?” Her gaze skated across the width of his shoulders and down to his waist and thighs before bouncing back to his face.
“I enjoy boxing. Fencing more. Mostly, I throw knives.”
A nervous chuckle. “I’d heard that. I’d hoped it might be a myth. How does one begin to take up such a hobby?”
“Carefully.”
“Ah. Haha. Naturally.” Her gaze roamed to the little group of three on the other side of the room. Likely, she hoped for escape, too. What was he doing wrong? What was he always doing wrong?
“And you? Do you have any hobbies?” Other than reading erotic novels, of course. He had not wanted to reveal he knew about the books. Telling her he knew her secret might appear too much like blackmail. Marry me or I’ll reveal your secret. He’d have to grow a mustache long enough to twirl in a sinister manner. He hated facial hair. It itched. But Lottie had insisted they be open with one another from the beginning. So, she knew he knew.
God he hoped she didn’t want to talk about it.
“Not really,” she said. “I suppose I enjoy reading.” She quirked a smile. “As you know. And social events. Balls and musicals and calling on my friends in the afternoons. I do keep up with parliamentary matters.” She looked at him as if she expected him to congratulate her.
“That is… unusual for most women, I believe.” But even if they did not read the papers, his sisters usually knew something because they’d suffered through his morning diatribes that accompanied his reading the paper. “The parliamentary part, not the social events…” Better to stop talking.
Hell, what time was it? The matchmaker was supposed to arrive at half past noon. He wanted to speak with her before she met Felicity, ensure himself she was an appropriate companion for his sisters.
“What I mean to say, Your Grace”—Lady Huxley leaned forward ever so slightly and dropped her voice, as if about to impart information it was safe only for him to hear—“is that I am adept at social maneuvering and capable of conversation with powerful men and women on important topics.”
“A-ah. Yes.” He understood now. She could do what a duchess must and use her social influence to encourage his parliamentary goals. “Excellent. Good for you.” Good for him, too. Wasn’t it?
She was pretty, with soft, delicate features and clever brown eyes. Short of stature. Too short, really. The hair, too. He preferred it long enough to wrap around his hand once or twice. But then hair hardly mattered (especially if it was not some shade between copper and bronze and glinted in the moonlight) because coiffures came and went as quickly as gown styles. Sleeves, currently, were rather puffy and hair, apparently, was currently styled elaborately. Or cut short? And… what had they been talking about?
Every time he tried to send a thought flying straight to a target, some memory of last night in the garden sent a storm wind to blow it off course.
“Lady Huxley,” he said, standing, “I apologize for wool gathering. I’ve a meeting in a few minutes, and I’m afraid my mind is set on that.”
She stood, pulling up to own every one of the very few inches she possessed. She came up not even to his collarbone. He’d have to bend in two to kiss her. Or find a box for her to stand on.
“I understand. We will talk more another time.”
“Join my sisters and I at Hyde Park. We walk weekly. Lottie will tell you when.”
Her mouth thinned a moment, as if he’d said something to displease her, but then she shook the irritation away. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will join you. We still must decide, you understand, if we suit one another.”
A reminder that nothing was guaranteed.
He was not panicking. The sweat on the back of his neck was because of the fire, and the need to run and hide because… because…
He nodded and sidestepped toward the door, waving at his sisters. “I’ll be in my study.”
“Yes, of course.” Andromeda tapped her toe, a sure sign of worry.
Lottie stood, shoulders thrown back in fighting style. “Samuel—”
“Quite busy. We’ll speak later.” He did not necessarily run from the room, but he didn’t walk either.
He sank into the chair behind his desk feeling like a fox who’d just darted into the hole in the earth that might save him. Do. Not. Panic. There was nothing wrong with Lady Huxley. She was everything a duchess should be and perfect for his purposes. Attraction, lack thereof, did not matter. Not for a sensible marriage.
Last night had been… magic. That kiss… sublime. He’d been awash in its simple glory and brimming with terror that it would never happen again. It would never happen again. That one kiss must last him a lifetime. He’d be grateful for it without greedily needing more.
His index finger traced against the top of the desk, in and out up and down, a steady rhythm he knew well. The same one he’d completed over and over again in the last thirteen years to calm himself. His mother’s name carved into the corner of the desk by the tip of his father’s knife— Rose . It had been there as long as Samuel could remember. His father had told him once that carving her name, over and over, helped him think. Usually, the reminder of how well his parents had loved one another helped Samuel, too. Not today. Today it seemed to slice splinters into his skin.
The name Lady Huxley didn’t fit neatly into the four letters of his mother’s name immortalized with adoration. Neither, ironically, did her given name Rosalie. The similarities in the two women’s names should be a sign—the widow was the right woman for him.
Samuel jumped to his feet and paced across the room, snapped open the ornate box set into the bookshelves, and ran his finger just above the row of shining knives nestled in red velvet. Perfectly balanced. They would balance him . He chose one and faced the opposing end of the room. A plank of wood hung there with a ring of concentric circles painted on it. His father had taught him this. Push all distraction to the edges of his concentration. Focus on what he could feel—the wooden hilt of the blade, the weight of it in his hand—and steady everything he could control. Breath and body and brain, slowed and ready. He tossed it, hit just outside the bullseye. The whack of the blade into the wood vibrated through him. He could do better. He could control this if nothing else.
He chose another blade and focused on that slim single point where the knife must hit. Only one way there, direct and sure. He inhaled, relaxed his arm, and—
The door opened, shattering his concentration, just as he flicked the blade into the air.
Yet the knife still hit the target, if not its center, and he allowed himself a satisfied grin before facing the intruder. His butler Mr. Jacobs and a woman.
Bloody hell, what a woman . She lifted a single red brow above brilliant blue eyes, and a knife hit him right between the ribs. He almost looked down to see if red spilled across his waistcoat. Ridiculous. All the same, though, he smoothed his hands down his torso—dry—and tugged it tight at the bottom, only just stopped himself from straightening his cuffs.
He knew her .
He’d kissed her.
He’d told her things.
Bloody hell. If his cheeks were as red as they felt, he could bring lost ships back from sea.
“Your Grace,” Jacobs said, “Lady Emma Blackwood to see you.”
The matchmaker.
And the moon maiden.
The only woman in Christendom who knew exactly how bloody pathetic he was.
No, she knew how pathetic Samuel Merriweather was. The Duke of Clearford did not suffer humiliation. Ever. And he would marry because he must. He did not languish for the sake of love.
“Thank you, Jacobs,” Samuel said, snuffing out his embarrassment all at once. Trying to. “That will be all.”
Jacobs hesitated in the doorway, as if he meant to disagree, then disappeared into the hallway.
Only Lady Emma now, standing tall in the door frame, blinking furiously. She seemed to have stopped breathing.
He reached her in two steps and guided her toward the chair across from his own at the desk. “Sit. If you faint, you won’t fall into anything hard. Or sharp.”
She waved his hands away, dislodging his help and sitting under her own power. “I’m not about to faint. I am merely… shocked. I thought never to see you again. It is you , isn’t it? From last night?” Those last three words a whisper in that delicious burr.
He nodded.
“How absolutely mortifying.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks as a fierce blush raced across them. They, too, could bring a ship home from sea.
“I do not exaggerate when I say I know exactly how you feel.”
“Well, what a confounding turn of events. You are the Duke of Clearford, I suppose?”
“I am. And that means you are the… bloody hell.” An absolute disaster. He bit off another curse. “I apologize. For my language.”
She nodded once, slowly, her gaze locked on to him.
She could, though, looking at the knife stuck to the bullseye across the room. “Impressive, that. Am I meant to fawn over your talent or tremble at your dangerous aim? I warn you, I neither fawn nor tremble, Your Grace.” The strength had returned to her voice, the teasing good humor, too, brightening the room with memories of fresh air, moonlight, and peace.
And baser awareness. The dark and the heavy cloak she’d worn last night had hid what he now saw was a regal beauty meant to kill a man. The elegant brow, those searing eyes, the tall length of her perfectly curvy body set off to advantage by some stout yet stylish gown that covered every inch of her from neck to ankle. Covered? More accurate to say enhanced. The well-fitted gown enhanced every inch of her from neck to ankle. And above the neck, a jaw perfect for kissing, lips any man would beg to hear his name from, those eyes, and a mess of a coiffure in shocking red. Red, then. Copper in the moonlight.
But more than that… she sparked. She demanded both attention and complete obedience. And he could imagine throwing himself at her feet.
What?
No.
She was supposed to be a spinster , long in tooth and short on charm. But she was… she was… God, she was delectable.
“Your Grace?” She tilted her head. “Did you fling your wits across the room with your blade?”
Had she just insulted him? Insulted him ?
Time to regain control from his inappropriately interested loins. The kiss must have given them hope.
He cleared his throat. “Do you often begin your new partnerships with insults?”
“Never. You inspire me.”
She inspired him. To strip off that pretty spencer she wore and—
No! Not today, loins.
They considered one another for much too long across the width of the desk.
“You are not an old bachelor,” she finally said.
“And you are not a spinster of advanced years.”
Her pretty lips thinned. “I am, actually.”
Ha. Hilarious, that.
He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers together before him. “Let us start anew, Lady Emma. We began our acquaintanceship in a highly unusual manner, but if you are to be in my employ, we must forget—”
“I do not work . For you or for anyone.”
His mouth hung open like a caught fish. He snapped it closed.
She leaned forward the slightest bit, hinging from the hips, her shoulders squared. “You said I was in your employ, and I am not. I do not take a commission. I am a lady. It is true my father has accepted gifts of gratitude from those I’ve helped, but…” She retreated to sit perfectly upright once more. “What I do is done from love.”
Who was this woman? Certainly not the soft-spoken vision from last night. She let him hold her hand! The woman sitting across from him now would sooner chop it off.
She lifted one hand from her lap and rolled it in circles at the wrist. “Among other things. Personality and social standing are paramount factors. As are physical attraction, financial stability, and common life goals.”
The drawer to his right seemed to burn bright. The only remaining copy of his harebrained Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship rested there, forgotten in the dark. “You have a system, then?”
“I daresay I do.”
He’d thought to construct his own from trial and error and observation. He’d been a fool. His hands wrapped like claws around the cool wood of his chair, and he inhaled deeply, relaxed his fingers. “Tell me about it.”
“Will you judge it? Do you think yourself fit to criticize what I do best? You see, I have read your articles, Your Grace. I know the sort of advice you offer, and I know your courtship strategies are… lacking.”
Oh God. Oh no. He clenched his hands about the ends of the chair arms to keep from melting into a humiliated puddle. “You did not think them lacking last night.” Shouldn’t have said that.
Slowly, she stood, chin high and indignant temper flashing red across her cheeks. “I see this partnership will never work. I regret it. I am in need of this. But considering last night… and considering our diametrically opposed philosophies, I think I will return to Scotland. Or see if anyone else in London is in need of my particular talents. I cannot hope, after all, that you will let me proceed as I wish. I foresee nothing but meddling and bickering and therefore failure. I refuse to fail.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I will be on my way. Thank you for this meeting. I found it… enlightening.” Her back was elegant and strong as she marched away from him.
“Sit back down. You came to help me, so you will do exactly that. We can forget what happened last night. I will not bring it up again if you do not. And I will not interfere. Sit, Lady Emma.” Now . What he wanted to add to the end of that sentence. She’d likely laugh and leave him lonely. Alone . Not lonely. He wasn’t lonely . She certainly could not make him feel that way. Hell, but his head ached.
“I regret,” he said, “that you read those pieces. I wrote them more than six years ago, and I have learned much since then.” Learned to keep his nodcock ideas to himself. Learned he didn’t understand women at all. “Sit, Lady Emma.”
The command made steel of her spine, and she continued her journey toward the door.
But as she strengthened, he melted, remembering how easy it had been to talk to her in the moonlight and shadows. “I was terrified back then. Eight sisters unwed and, as I saw it, all of them terribly unhappy. All I could think was how happy our parents had been, and I wished… I wished to push them toward matrimony since they did not seem to wander that direction themselves.”
She considered him over her shoulder, thoughtful.
He shook his arms out to hang at the sides of his chair, dropped his head against its back edge to stare at the ceiling. He’d already made the cut in his chest, why not go deeper, slice all the way to his damn heart. “I was trying to help the gentlemen who seemed too scared or too stupid to court my sisters properly.”
More footsteps now, but closer, then the creak of a body sitting in a chair.
“Did it work?” she asked.
“Five of them married now.” He sighed, lowered his head to find her staring at him. “No help from me, I’m afraid.”
She lifted a hand over her mouth but not before he glimpsed a grin.
Charming. Infuriating? Both.
He fell forward and braced his forearms on his desk. “I know it seems foolish, but I prefer to get straight to the point. A direct attack. That is the right way to solve problems.” Identify and attack, like throwing a blade at a target. He’d hit dead center every time. Almost every time. “My Guide did just that—placing possible courtship strategies into immediate practice so that after close observation I could modify if necessary.”
She glanced at the target across the room. “Throw, and if you miss, adjust your aim?”
“Precisely.”
She pressed her lips into a line before they popped out lush and pink. “That is not the proper way to go about things at all. You cannot shoot a suitor as you would a deer in the woods. Marriage, compatibility, like most problems, are more complicated. One must gather bits and pieces of information before taking action. Hold that information close and study it often until they begin to form an understandable solution.”
He did not roll his eyes. Barely.
“Do not make that sound.”
“What sound?”
She pointed a lazy finger at his neck. “The one stuck just there and halfway between a grunt and a huff. The one that says you think I’m absurd.”
Her means of solving problems was absurd. She had flaws. Excellent bit of truth to discover. He’d cling to it when silk clung to the curve of her hip.
“Consider this,” she said. “You enter a ballroom with a problem that can only be solved by those within it. You wander about, talking and listening. You gather information piecemeal, here and there over the length of the entire night. By the time the day dawns and everyone makes their way home, the room is empty, but your hands and mind are filled with ideas. Things you can shape until they make sense.”
“Inefficient.”
“Sometimes efficiency simply makes a mess.”
“If you know the right path to begin with it, take it. Meandering wastes time. The correctness of my strategy is not in question. It was merely that… merely that I did not understand…” He bit off a curse.
She fluttered her eyelashes. “What, Your Grace? What is it you did not understand?”
She knew. Damn it to hell, she knew , and she wanted him to say it. Women . He did not understand women. But he would not give her the satisfaction. “I did not understand everything then, but I learned much. I daresay I could competently coach a man in courtship now.” Why in hell had he said that?
Standing once more, she leaned a little over his desk, letting her fingertips graze across the wood. She wore gloves today, slightly fraying at the tips as if she’d worn them several Seasons. The most delicate bit of embroidery followed the hem of the glove at her wrist. White blooms in a white field below the plum purple of a velvet pelisse. “Thank you for your time, Your Grace. But it is clear you will not be able to keep your promise to avoid interfering.”
She turned, not even making it a single step before he said, “Please.”
He shouldn’t beg, but he would do anything for his sisters. He’d seek the advice of a woman he wanted to kiss, a woman who thought him a fool, a woman who made him equal parts angry and aroused. A woman who made him beg.
He would resist her, too. Easy enough to do now they truly knew one another. What he’d felt last night—a trick of the silver light. No soul-deep understanding there, only wayward lust he could snuff out. Or ignore.
“Please,” he said again. He’d already humiliated himself once in front of this woman. What was once more? “Please.” One more pitiful petition because she may be a disapproving harridan, but more than any other woman of his acquaintance, he needed her.