A Lady Never Surrenders (7 page)

“Oh,” she said in a small voice.

He glanced at her, surprised to find her looking stricken. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t know she
had
suitors.”

“Of course she has suitors.” Not any he could approve of, but he wasn’t about to mention that to his aunt. “I’m sure you read about her grandmother’s ultimatum in those reports you transcribed. She has to marry, and soon, too.”

“I know. But I was rather hoping … I mean, with you there so often and her being an unconventional sort…” When he cast her a quizzical look, she went on more forcefully, “There’s no reason
you
couldn’t offer for her.”

He nearly choked on his bread. “Are you out of your mind?”

“She needs a husband. You need a wife. Why not her?”

“Because marquess’s daughters don’t marry bastards, for one thing.”

The coarse word made her flinch. “You’re still from a perfectly respectable family, no matter the circumstances of your birth.” She eyed him with a sudden gleam in her eye. “And I notice you didn’t say you weren’t interested.”

Hell
. He sopped up some gravy with his bread. “I’m not interested.”

“I’m not saying you have to be in love with her. That would perhaps be asking too much at this point, but if you courted her, in time—”

“I would fall in love? With Lady Celia? That isn’t possible.”

“Why not?”

Because what he felt for Celia Sharpe was lust, pure and simple. He didn’t even know if he
wanted
to fall in love. It was all fine and well for the Sharpes, who could love where they pleased, but for people like him and his mother, love was an impossible luxury … or a tragedy in the making.

That’s why he couldn’t let his desire for Lady Celia overcome his reason. His hunger for her might be more powerful than he cared to admit, but he’d controlled it until now, and he would get the best of it in time. He had to. She was determined to marry someone else.

His aunt was watching him with a hooded gaze. “I hear she’s somewhat pretty.”

Hell and blazes, she wouldn’t let this go. “You
hear
? From whom?”

“Your clerk. He saw her when the family came in to the office one time. He’s told me about all the Sharpes, how they depend on you and admire you.”

He snorted. “I see my clerk has been doing it up brown.”

“So she’s
not
pretty?”

“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever—” At her raised eyebrow, he scowled. “Too beautiful for the likes of me. And of far too high a consequence.”

“Her grandmother is a brewer. Her family has been covered in scandal for years. And they’re grateful to you for all you’ve done so far. They might be grateful enough to countenance your suit.”

“You don’t know the Sharpes.”

“Oh, so they’re too high and mighty? Treat you like a servant?”

“No,” he bit out. “But…”

“By my calculations, there’s two months left before she has to marry. If she’s had no offers, she might be getting desperate enough to—”

“Settle for a bastard?”

“Ignore the difference in your stations.” She seized his arm. “Don’t you see, my boy? Here’s your chance. You’re on the verge of becoming Chief Magistrate. That would hold some weight with her.”

Setting his fork down, he leaned back in his chair. “First of all, I’m not on the verge of anything. Just because Sir Richard Birnie is retiring doesn’t mean they’ll choose me to replace him.”

That was his hope, of course, and everything he’d done had been to further that aim, as his aunt well knew. He’d served as an assistant magistrate for the past couple of years, ever since he’d been instrumental in solving the murder of the first Lady Kirkwood. But even at thirty-two, he was still quite young to become Chief Magistrate.

“Secondly,” he went on, “a Chief Magistrate is about as far beneath a marquess’s daughter as a tree is beneath the moon.”

A mutinous look crossed his aunt’s face. “Sir Richard started out as a saddler’s apprentice. He got himself a knighthood partly because he married a wife with good connections.”

“A wealthy baker’s daughter. That’s a far cry from a lady of rank.”

“That doesn’t mean it can’t happen. You’re a fine man, a handsome man, if I do say so myself. You’re young and strong, with a good education and gentlemanly manners—better manners than Sir Richard, anyway. And now that you own this house—”

“She lives in a mansion!” Snatching his arm free, he rose. “Do you really think she’d be happy here in Cheapside, with the butchers and merchants and tradesmen?”

Her aunt looked wounded. “I thought you liked this neighborhood.”

Damn
. “I do, but…” There was nothing for it but to tell her the truth. “She can’t stand me, all right? I’d be the last person on earth she’d want to marry.” Snatching up the report, he headed for the door. “I have to go.”

“Jackson?”

“What?”
he barked.

“If that’s true, she’s a fool.”

Lady Celia was no fool. She simply knew better than to take up with a man who didn’t know the identity of his own father. He managed a curt nod. “I’ll see you tonight, Aunt.”

As he left the house, an age-old anger weighed him down. He wouldn’t hurt Aunt Ada for the world, but she didn’t understand. Ever since he’d started working for the Sharpes, she’d hoped that his association with them would raise him up in the world, and nothing he said dampened that hope.

No doubt she believed that his father’s supposedly noble blood made him somehow superior to every other bastard. But one day she would learn. An unclaimed bastard was an unclaimed bastard, no matter who his father was.

A
week later, on the first night of the house party, the guests gaily mingled about the great hall and a bit of impromptu dancing was in progress, but Celia felt rather blue.

Put her with a group of men bragging about their exploits and trying to outdo each other, and she was perfectly at home. But at more formal affairs, she ran into trouble. Men turned into such silly creatures when faced with ladies in fine dresses. They spouted ridiculous compliments or talked only of the weather, as if females were too stupid for anything else. Or they retreated en masse to the card room.

She wasn’t adept at flirting, like Minerva, and she didn’t read widely, like her sister-in-law Maria. All she could talk about was shooting, and that rarely enticed a man to view a woman as a romantic prospect.

But that wasn’t the only reason for her depressed spirits. Her suitors were
not
acting according to plan.

Although Lord Devonmont was here, the Visconde de Basto had said he could come to Halstead Hall only during the day. He was reluctant to leave his sister alone at night with just servants to watch after her. And the duke
still
hadn’t arrived. He’d accepted the invitation to the house party but apparently hadn’t thought it necessary to show up in a timely fashion. He hadn’t sent word about the reason for his lateness either. Like a typical duke, he was doing everything at his leisure and assuming that the world would go along. That didn’t bode well for his manageability as a husband.

The worst part was that Mr. Pinter had shown up too late for her to get him alone and ask what he’d discovered about her suitors. How was she to go on without some inside information? He
knew
he was supposed to provide her with that. Instead, he prowled among the guests like a panther stalking prey.

As he came near where she stood, she noted that at least Gran’s fears about his clothing had been for naught. Though out of date, his tailcoat of cobalt blue superfine with gilt buttons and his waistcoat of sky blue silk were perfectly respectable. The color turned his gray eyes into a mesmerizing azure, and his chest and shoulders filled out both coat and waistcoat rather impressively.

Not that she cared. Nor did she care how his white trousers clung to calves that were surprisingly muscular or how his thighs strained against the fabric. So what if he cut a fine figure in evening attire? His stern manner ruined it all.

Although right now his manner was anything but stern. He was speaking amiably to Lady Kirkwood, who said something that made him laugh. Astonishing! The man could laugh! It quite transformed his face, softening the sharp edges and sweetening his expression.

A lump caught in Celia’s throat. Why had
she
never seen him laugh?

And why was he making merry with the Kirkwoods, anyway? Shouldn’t he be off questioning her suitors’ servants and sneaking into their rooms? Getting information? Lord Kirkwood wasn’t good friends with any of her choices.

Mr. Pinter caught her gaze on him, and his laughter died. Then he offered her a nod as cool as any she’d ever seen.

That sparked her temper. She nodded with equal coolness and deliberately turned her back on him, only to find Lord Devonmont approaching.

“May I have this dance, madam?” he asked with a genuine smile.

If Lord Devonmont could smile at her, why couldn’t that blasted Bow Street Runner?

“I would be delighted,” she said in an effusive voice that she hoped carried to the officious Mr. Pinter. “How good of you to ask.”

His eyes twinkled as he offered her his arm. “How good of you to accept.”

As he led her to the floor, she cast a furtive glance back to where Mr. Pinter was watching her and Lord Devonmont with his usual impenetrable gaze. It made a shiver skitter down her spine.

Then the waltz began. Lord Devonmont was an excellent dancer, thank heaven. She enjoyed dancing almost as much as she enjoyed shooting. It was physical and energetic, and she was rather good at it.

They took a few turns in a comfortable silence. Then she couldn’t resist peeking in the direction of the Kirkwoods to see if Mr. Pinter had noticed her skill at waltzing. But he wasn’t with them anymore. Had he finally gone off to do his job? Was he even now slipping into Lord Devonmont’s room?

“Looking for someone?” Lord Devonmont asked.

Oh, dear, she’d been too obvious. “Certainly not,” she said lightly.

He raised an eyebrow. “So you weren’t watching for Lyons?”

That startled her. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“You’re in the market for a husband, and Lyons is unattached.” His voice deepened. “As am I.”

Blast, she couldn’t have him catching on to her plans so quickly. He might bolt. “Really, Lord Devonmont, it’s not what you—”

“Call me Pierce. We’re practically family.” He said it in that husky, roguish voice her brothers used to use on women they wanted to bed. Her brothers hadn’t always been discreet in their flirtations.

Coming from Lord Devonmont, however, it took her completely by surprise. Surely he wasn’t trying to … seduce her. “You’re a second cousin to my brother’s wife—that’s hardly a family connection.”

“Then call me Pierce because we’re friends.” He bent in close in the turn, eyes gleaming as they dropped to her lips. “
Intimate
friends, if I get my wish.”

This time there was no mistaking his meaning. But he was so practiced and smooth that she couldn’t help herself—she laughed. When that made him frown, she tried to suppress her amusement, but that only made her laugh harder.

“What’s so funny?” he muttered.

“I’m sorry,” she said, swallowing her amusement. “It’s just that I’ve heard my brothers make such insinuations to women in that tone of voice for years, but I’ve never been on the receiving end.”

Pierce’s sensual smile would rival that of Casanova. “I don’t know why not,” he said in a lazy drawl. His gaze raked her appreciatively as they swirled about the room. “Tonight, in that purple gown, you look particularly fetching. The color suits you.”

“Thank you.” Minerva had been trying to get her to stop wearing browns and oranges for years, but Celia had always pooh-poohed her sister’s opinions. It was only after Virginia had said exactly the same thing last month that she’d begun to think she should listen. And to order new gowns accordingly.

“You’re a lovely woman with the figure of a Venus and a mouth that could make a man—”

“You can stop now.” Her amusement vanished. She’d be flattered if he meant a single word, but clearly this was just a game to him. “I don’t need the full rogue treatment, I assure you.”

Interest sparked in his eyes. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that I might be sincere?”

“Only if you’re sincerely trying to seduce me.”

He cast her a blatantly carnal glance as he held her tighter. “Well, of course I’m trying to seduce you. What else would I be doing?”

She pitched her voice over the music. “I’m a respectable woman, you know.”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

She arched an eyebrow at him as they moved in consort.

“Even a respectable woman might be tempted into, say, slipping out with a gentleman for a walk in the moonlit courtyard. And if said gentleman should happen to steal a kiss or two—”

“Lord Devonmont!”

“Fine.” He smiled ruefully. “But you can’t blame me for trying. You do look ravishing this evening.”

“There you go again,” she said, exasperated. “Can you never talk to a woman as if she’s a normal person?”

“How dull that would be.” When she frowned, he shook his head. “Very well. What scintillating topics of conversation did you have in mind?”

That was easy. She’d been wondering something ever since his cousin had married her brother. “When you offered to marry Virginia a few months ago, was it just to save her from my brother’s attentions or were you really hoping she would accept?” In other words, was he looking for a wife or not?

The sudden glint in his eyes told her he might have guessed her goal. “That’s far too serious a conversation for a party. Can’t we just keep flirting?”

Though his voice held a certain hardness now, she refused to let him change the subject. “I merely wondered if Virginia left you brokenhearted. If you were still holding a tendre for her.”

A shuttered look crossed his face. “No one leaves me brokenhearted, my dear lady. Not even my cousin.”