Chapter 7
He’d intended to interrogate Miss Kearsley and swiftly send her on her way with a fair warning.
All that ended the minute she laughed.
To be precise, the moment his brother-in-law and partner, Cadogan—of all men—drew that rich, full-throated amusement from the emotionless chit’s blood-red lips.
He scowled.
Here she’d been in Argyll’s company, well, longer than he cared, and her face was as blank as a sheet of parchment. But a handful of moments with the rebarbative, supercilious Cadogan and she had crimson color spilling across her ghastly white cheeks.
Granted, Argyll hadn’t bestowed the full-force of his charm…correction, any force of his charm. That was neither here nor there. Attracting a woman’s attention wasn’t something he worked at. It…just—damn it, came naturally.
Or it had had. Until her.
Argyll swallowed hard and took a few intentional breathes.
This one stared directly at him with absolutely no emotion in her penetrating brown eyes.
That was, with the exception of one singular little lapse. Moments ago, Daria Kearsley’s eyes went all soft, distant, giving a dreamy air to the otherwise expressionless wallflower. It’d taken Argyll a whole three instances before he’d managed what Kilburn had naturally done.
She’d managed to attach Argyll’s difficult-to-snare notice.
He revisited the lady’s earlier statement.
“You have something to offer me?” he asked, full of sardonicism.
He’d hand it to the chit. She was queer as Dick’s hatband, but she took an insult the way Gentleman Jackson took right hooks—without so much as a twinge.
The cut direct he’d given her at Lord and Lady St. Cyr’s would have sent every other woman running in tears.
Not this strong-willed bit of baggage. She’d shown up a second time, in his residence no less.
Determined as ever, she’d walked past Argyll’s partners, DuMond and Cadogan, like they were two footmen and she, their queen.
With that same command, Miss Kearsley came around the sofa. This time, with no invitation or order on his part, she availed herself to a seat at last.
The ennui that plagued him for some time now eased all the more.
Argyll studied her with a surprising interest. Fearless in front of him and his partners, and without a trace of passion in her pale, cold body, what would it take to erase her perfect composure?
Would she be quiet in her surrender? Or scream for all the servants and passersby to hear?
He’d venture she was as silent as the death she looked like.
At last, having the lady where he wanted, seated, with all advantage erased, Argyll slid onto the upholstered armchair adjacent to her.
“Daria,” he said smoothly. “You have me intrigued.” And she did.
“I could help you get closer to the Duke of Craven.”
Well, that was certainly unexpected.
“Are you offering to bring me Miss Caldecott to ruin?” The prospect of an easy ruin was a suddenly dull prospect.
She reeled like struck. “Never!”
There it was. Miss Kearsley blushed a soft, rosy red. Rocking her otherwise staid expression proved unexpectedly delightful. Would that color become an even deeper cherry red if she were under him, taking his deep, demanding thrusts?
“You’re a loyal thing. How trite.”
“If by thing, you mean, woman, Gregory. Then yes. I pride myself on being a loyal friend, sister, and daughter.”
“Like a dog,” he said lightly.
Miss Kearsley ignored his baiting. She’d make him work for this one: to elicit a reaction. To steal a smile. To quibble with him. Argyll’s intrigue deepened.
“My wife owes me loyalty in my club, in my dealings, and in every matter touching my name. In the bedroom? She may tup whom she pleases.” He’d never been and would never be the possessive sort, and certainly not over a virginal miss who shared his name. “After I have my heir, of course.”
Miss Kearsley took that in. “Are we discussing terms?”
Was he actually considering marriage to this one? He felt a droll smile curve his lips. Egad, he was even more bored than he’d accounted for. “You have gotten ahead of yourself, sweet girl.”
“But you are considering my proposal,” she said with an insistence people simply did not show in his presence.
Simultaneously amused and irked, he plastered on a smile. “I’d have to be mad.”
“Well, given you believe me mad, that would make us an ideal match.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Was that a joke, Miss Kearsley?”
“Yes, but as you had to ask, it was not a very good one.”
On the contrary, it’d been a clever little quip from the morbid miss. He’d never concede as much. Best to never let anyone have any sort of hand over him.
Argyll took a sip of brandy and sat back in his chair, keeping up his scrutiny. “Tell me more about how you can help me?” Once again, she didn’t buckle under his taunting.
It’d be a trait any woman who ultimately became his duchess should be skilled at. Not because he was the cruel, bullying sort, but because of the gossip, scrutiny, and resentment the lady who married him was sure to encounter.
“I am a friend of Emmy’s.”
He stared blankly at her.
“Emmy,” she repeated. A grim line claimed her lips. “The woman you intended—”
“Ah, Miss Caldecott. All the sisters with their E-starting names makes it deuced difficult to keep track of.”
“I should believe it fairly simple, Your Grace. Elise is happily married and has never had contact with you. Edith is the Caldecott sister you dosed and sought to ravage, and Emmy is the one you want to marry.”
His mind skipped over the latter for the former. “Is that what she told you?” he asked, miffed. “That I drugged her.”
“No.”
Some of the tension eased from his shoulders.
“You just have a reputation of doing so.” She looked deliberately at the burnished gold spirits.
His jaw locked pulling tight.
“They say the drink you offer women, is sweet.”
“Do they?” he rejoined, with false cheer.
Not recognizing sarcasm if it bit her, the lady nodded. Adding insult to injury, Miss Kearsley picked his glass up. Then, like she were some sort of John Fielding, the chit drew the snifter close. She gave it several sniffs and set it back down.
Why did it not surprise him the raven-haired chit had experience with spirits?
Something pinched beneath his breastbone. Whatever it was that stirred inside him, he contained at once. “Anything off, Miss Kearsley?” he said pleasantly.
He didn’t compel her. He let the decision belong to Miss Kearsley.
When she made no move to pick up the snifter, he grabbed her untouched glass and finished all but a couple of fingerfuls. Argyll set it down softly, unassumingly in a quiet challenge.
Miss Kearsley pondered the drink and picked it up with that same careful consideration.
Under hooded lashes, Argyll took in the lady’s impressively stolid grip. No wilting lily, this one.
Again, the lady brought the snifter near her nose, and slowly inhaled.
The oddling’s expression grew more contemplative.
“What do you smell?” he asked coolly.
“It has a woodsy scent.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Woodsy. What else, Miss Kearsley?”
This time, she closed her eyes.
Argyll went still. The sight of her—lashes lowered, breath drawn slowly, lips parted just enough—caught him unaware.
Then, his quiet little reverent drank.
From that small, single sip, the room receded. Argyll’s attention narrowed to the small movement of her mouth.
Heat stirred low and expected.
Miss Kearsley set the empty snifter down slowly. She alternated her focus between the glass and the bottle he’d poured her drink from.
The lady stood.
His jaw locked and lust died.
“Leaving, Miss Kearsley?” he jeered. Good. The sooner she went, the better.
“No.”
Taken aback, Argyll observed the lady. With an ease and boldness to be admired, she fetched that decanter and carried it back.
His annoyance redoubled.
“Do you intend to conduct a full-study, Miss Kears—?”
The soft rush as spirits flowed into her emptied glass, ended his mocking inquiry.
His queer nighttime visitor set the decanter down, and sipped from her glass. All the while, she watched Argyll with oddly compelling eyes. She took him in the same way she had the drink she thought tainted.
The rest of his patience whittled away.
Holding her unswervingly direct gaze, Argyll quirked an eyebrow. “Well, Miss Kearsley? Do you find yourself overcome with passion, and afire for my kiss.”
“It is negus with a splash of brandy,” she correctly placed—and impressed the hell out of him. She pondered her beverage. “Perhaps it’s simply that you don’t have a need to seduce me.”
“Nor a want, Miss Kearsley,” he muttered, in only half-truth this time. Miss Kearsley possessed a peculiarity which was fast calling to him.
“Now, regarding the matter of Craven,” he said bluntly. “How can you get me Craven?”
“You seek to reconcile with your friend and build an al—” She gasped.
Argyll was over her so quick, his arms framed on either side, trapping the lady. In the delicate but deep hollow of her neck, her pulse pounded. It betrayed her. Giving her fear away and shredding to pieces the cloak of imperturbability she wore so well.
“How do you know that?” he whispered in satiny tones.
Miss Kearsley’s fair, smooth, vulnerable throat moved. “It does not take much to deduce, Gregory. Based on your interest in Emmy.”
“Why not revenge? Hmm?” he demanded, when she thought her answer sufficient.
Her long, shadowy lashes swept slowly up and down with a languor more bored than afraid. “You value your business and barely tolerate ton functions. As such, you are not a man to waste his time on mere revenge, not unless it somehow benefited your club.”
Argyll didn’t move his gaze from her face. Then, straightening, he resumed his seat.
He smiled. “You’re not completely stupid, are you?”
“I would say not at all stupid, Your Grace.”
Yes, he was fast arriving at that conclusion.
Eager to be done with this already drawn-out exchange, he got to the only detail of note. “How do you expect you can smooth my relationship with Craven?”