A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior (15 page)

“Alexa—”

“You have one week to overcome your infatuation, Tess. If you choose not to, I will take myself elsewhere. It shouldn’t be all that difficult for you, considering you don’t even want to be seen looking
at him.” He inclined his head. “I’ll see you for the waltz.”

With that he left the library.

Theresa looked at the closed door. Of all the mean, manipulative things to say. Except that it was plainly the truth. After a moment, realizing that her hands were clenched, she strode to the window and back again. She knew she had a reputation for propriety. She knew that everyone else knew it. But this—

Just when had people begun using her…her squeamishness against her? Had other people aside from Montrose made plans
counting
on the fact that she could be relied upon to act in a certain way? That was simply too much.

“Bloody hell,” she blurted, then clapped both hands over her mouth. The bad curse. She
never
used the bad curse.

And yet, nothing happened.

Lightning didn’t streak through the closed window to strike her. No one ran into the room and began calling her a hoyden. She certainly
felt
precisely the same, except…better.

“Bloody hell,” she repeated, allowing the words to roll along her tongue. It felt oddly satisfying. After all, she was quite fond of a man who had very bad manners, no sense of convention, and who was at the beginning of a very unpleasant fight for his reputation. And another man had just all but called her a coward and delivered her an ultimatum.

“Bloody hell,” she said for a third time, beginning to understand why some men were so fond of the curse. It was magnificent, really.

The liquor tantalus caught her eye. How many times had she heard the stuff called liquid courage? Well, she could certainly use a bit of that.

Tentatively she tugged on the latch holding up the piece of wood that locked the bottles in place. It fell open with no effort at all. Well, that smacked of providence. Sending a look over her shoulder, heady excitement coursing through her, she picked up one of the pretty decanters, pulled out the stopper, and poured a small portion of the amber liquid into a waiting glass. Still no punishment rained from the heavens or through the closed door to stop her.

Theresa lifted the glass. Then, holding her breath, she took a long, deep swallow.

Fire poured down her throat, raw and burning up into her nostrils, making her eyes water and setting her gagging. “Bloody hell,” she choked. Then, pinching her nose shut, she finished off the glass. Liquid courage, indeed.

T
he moment Lackaby rolled him into the ballroom, Bartholomew’s gaze went to the large, chatty group standing to one side of the dance floor.

Of course she’d be at its center. Theresa Weller was the sun around which all lesser planets circled. But then the sun had hidden behind the damned moon that was the Marquis of Montrose the moment she’d glimpsed him and his very obvious chair. Then she’d fled the blasted room with the man.

“No one’s so much as glancing in our direction,” Stephen commented under his breath.

“Yes, they are.”

“Well, they aren’t approaching. Why the devil did you have to wear that damned uniform?”

“It made me the man I am today.”

Stephen leaned over him, something which Bartholomew had swiftly realized he disliked. “Do not send your sarcasm my way, Tolly. I am on your side, if you’ll recall.”

“I know that,” Bartholomew retorted, keeping his voice low. “If
you’ll
recall, I informed you that standing by me would not be pleasant.”

“At least Sommerset shook your hand. The man has a great deal of influence. At the least, everyone’s afraid to cross him. To his face. But unless he stands beside you all evening, th—”

“Which he has no reason to do,” Bartholomew cut in. The duke had already made it more than clear that his support wouldn’t for the most part be public.

There was no reason for it to be otherwise. And in truth, tonight he wouldn’t have cared if everyone present turned his or her back on him—save one. She, however, had already fled the room.

Lackaby leaned over his other shoulder. “Whatever you’re looking for here, Colonel, you ain’t going to find allies. Never seen so many noses pointed in the air.”

“I’m not looking for anything,” Bartholomew returned. “I’m reminding them that I’m here.”

“Well. That seems to be working, then.”

It was, at that. The East India Company could claim that India was safe as kittens, but he had a rather obvious limp. They could call him incompetent, which he could almost sense coming, but they couldn’t deny that he’d been wounded. In India.

The music for the evening’s first dance began.
Montrose reappeared to take a petite, dark-haired chit by the arm and lead her forward. Other than noting that nearly everyone seemed to want to dance tonight, Bartholomew didn’t pay them any mind.

Of much more interest was the lad, Lord Biskell’s second son, as he recalled, standing just to the side and looking from Theresa’s grandmother to the dance floor as though he’d lost something. Bartholomew could guess what it was. Tess hadn’t reappeared from wherever she’d gone off to with Montrose. A few moments later Biskell’s son gave the room at large an uncertain smile and wandered off in the direction of the refreshment table.

Theresa Weller would not leave a dance partner standing without excuse or explanation. “Lackaby.”

The valet stood behind him, tapping his toes to the rhythm of the quadrille. “Aye, Colonel?”

“Push me over there.” He indicated the door on one side of the room through which Tess and Montrose had vanished.

“How do I get one of them sugared orange peels?”

“You don’t. Push.”

With a jolt he and the chair moved. He saw the looks and the swift glances away. He’d seen them since he’d entered the room. He didn’t care; tonight was only about making his presence known. In the next day or two he would begin pushing back.

“Stop here.”

The chair stopped. “Well, this seems much nicer over here,” the valet observed, sarcasm thick in his tone.

Bartholomew held up one hand. “Cane.”

“Colonel, you keep walking on the damned leg and it’s likely to give up and fall off.”

“Cane.”

The valet blew out his breath. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With exaggerated care Lackaby handed over the stick of scorched ash with its very sharp rapier hidden inside. The valet’s warning was a good one; whatever Bartholomew wanted to accomplish, he had to weigh whether he wished to do it with one leg, or two.

Any sense of self-preservation, though, paled in comparison with his desire to find out where Tess had got to. Whether she wanted him to find her or not.

He pushed upright, hiding his wince as the movement pulled at healing bone and muscle. Leaning on his cane much more heavily than he liked, Bartholomew left the ballroom behind. The half dozen doors to his right and to his left were all open, with the exception of one.

Despite his inclination not to trust his instincts any longer, he headed down the hallway toward the closed door. A pair of servants caught up and passed him, continuing on toward the stairs that would be at the rear of the house.

Sending a quick glance up and down the now-empty hallway, he gripped the door latch and pushed. The door opened silently before him. He moved quietly, not certain what to expect or even completely convinced she would be there.

“Bloody
hell
,” he heard from across the room in Tess’s distinctive voice.

He knew in an instant that something was awry. Theresa stood near one of the bookcases that lined
the left wall. In her hand was a glass. As he watched, she took a delicate sip.

“
Bloody
hell,” she said again, making a face.

Christ
. As swiftly as he could, Bartholomew shut the door behind him. “Theresa.”

Visibly jumping, she faced him. “Vodka is a vile drink,” she said. “I prefer whiskey.”

“Then why are you drinking vodka?”

“I had to try it, you know. Otherwise, how could I judge?”

Something had definitely happened. Reaching behind him with his free hand, Bartholomew threw the bolt to lock the door. Whatever was amiss, he certainly knew enough about Theresa Weller to realize she would be mortified if anyone caught sight of her now.

“Tess,” he said slowly, keeping his voice low and level, “what’s troubling you?” What he wanted to do was grab her and shake her and ask if Montrose had done something to harm her. If he had, the marquis was a dead man.

She blew out her lips. “Do you know what I am?” she asked.

Several answers came to mind, among them
lovely
and
inebriated
. “What are you?” he asked aloud.

“I am two things.” She lifted two fingers at him, looked at the V she’d made, then giggled and covered the gesture with her other hand. The glass fell to the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice it. “That was naughty, wasn’t it?”

“Only if you meant it to be. Which two things are you?”

“Oh, yes. I almost forgot. I am predictable, and I am a coward.”

He cleared his throat. “I must say, I don’t find you predictable at all.”

Theresa clapped once, then jabbed a single finger in his direction. “No, you don’t,” she exclaimed. “I am not predictable around you. It’s
your
fault.”

“Hmm. Don’t expect me to apologize for that.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

“And
I
know you’re not a coward, Theresa.”

“But I am. And everyone knows it. Alex, Alexander the Great, gave me a week to decide whether to marry him or not. And he
knows
what I’ll say, because he
knows
I can’t be around you.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Because of the scandal.”

The scandal. He’d actually forgotten about that for a moment, the way he seemed to forget everything dark when she was about. And he wanted so badly to kiss her that he was almost willing to pretend that nothing outside that room even existed. Almost. “I should be going, then.”

“No! You should stay.” Theresa hurried forward.

Before he could put out a hand to stop her, Tess hit him in the chest. The cane slid out from beneath his grip, and he went down on his backside. Theresa fell with him, landing across his chest with a thud that knocked the air from his lungs.

For a dozen heartbeats he lay there, trying to recover his breath and assess whether his leg remained attached to the rest of him. Petite though she was, Theresa packed a punch. “Tess?” he rasped, putting a hand across her back.

Abruptly she lifted her head, looking down at him from mere inches away. Disheveled blond hair framed
her face, her gray-green eyes as surprised as his likely were. “Don’t seduce me,” she ordered, her gaze lowering to his mouth.

He wanted to. If she hadn’t been drunk and upset, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. “I’m not.”

“Oh.” Slowly, almost as though she was being dragged forward against her will, she sank down along his body again and kissed him.

She tasted rather strongly of spirits, but Bartholomew didn’t give a damn about that. Her mouth molded against his, warm and soft and perfect. He drew his arms around her hip and shoulder, holding her close against him. Desire twitched into his bones.

Fingers began plucking at his neat, military-style cravat, pulling at the knot there. With a silent curse and a very clear understanding that he would very likely regret the next few moments for the rest of his life, Bartholomew broke from her mouth.

“Anywhere but here, Tess,” he said softly. “And any time but now.” He shifted to put his hands over hers, between them, to stop her from undressing him.

“But this is what you want,” she breathed, frowning.

“Yes, it is. But not so you’ll hate me for it tomorrow.”

She scowled down at him. “You’ll miss your chance, Bartholomew. Tonight I am cursing and drinking. I’m almost certain I won’t do either one tomorrow. And that means I won’t do this, either.” She lowered her mouth onto his again.

He sank into the kiss for a moment, then pushed her shoulders, lifting her off him. “Then I suppose I will do without.”

“But—”

“You won’t want me tomorrow, Tess. You made that clear. And I’d prefer that you simply avoid me rather than hate me.”

“I hate you a little bit at this very moment.”

“I hate myself more than a little at this moment.” He gave her one last, close look, then set her away from him so he could sit up.

“It isn’t fair, you know,” she said, blowing a strand of her hair from her forehead. “I meant to be a paragon of virtue.”

Good God, was he ever falling for the wrong woman. “You still are. We’ve only kissed.”

“I wrote a booklet on proper behavior. It’s widely circulated.”

“I heard that you had.”

“I like kissing you, very much. And I keep thinking about how much I would like…everything else with you.”

“I think about that, as well.” He glanced around them. The most likely object to be able to support his weight was the wall, and that was several feet away.

“Perhaps if you told me that you mean to live quietly until some other scandal takes everyone’s attention away from the East India Company nonsense, then we could…kiss again. I might even be able to pretend to visit Amelia and come see you instead.” She brushed her fingers through his hair. “You do need a trim, you know.”

“Yes, I know. The problem, sweet Tess, is that if I agree to be labeled an incompetent and a coward, I’ve doomed the reputations of my men. No one else can speak for them.”

“That’s very good of you, I have to admit. And you look…spectacular in your uniform.”

“Thank you, and it’s not a matter of goodness. They were able, well-trained soldiers. If I hadn’t trusted the wrong man…” He stopped. Sweet Lucifer. He’d never spoken of what happened. Not since he’d delivered his official report to his commanding officer. “I owe them their good names,” he finished aloud.

“But then you’ll set yourself against the Company, and everyone will take sides, and it will be very, very nasty. And you’re making it worse, by wearing your uniform.”

Slowly Bartholomew reached out to brush his fingers along her cheek. Once she sobered up, he wouldn’t be able to touch her again, and he wanted—needed—to touch her. “It will be,” he agreed. “But I’ve lived through worse, and I survived. I think you have, as well.” He caught her gaze. “We have each lived through the worst thing that will ever happen to us. The decision is what to do next.”

Gray-green eyes held his for a long moment. A tear ran slowly down one cheek. “But I already decided that,” she whispered.

“Change your mind.”

“I—”

“But first, help me up, will you?” Yes, he wanted her to reconsider her obsession with propriety, but not tonight. He might not be much of a gentleman, but he knew that serious decisions were not to be made while intoxicated.

“What? Oh yes.” Theresa stood, her skirts falling around her in a disheveled delight of silk and skin. She staggered, and he put up a hand to steady her.

Theresa dragged a chair over, and between it and her hauling on his arm, Bartholomew managed to stand. She bent over and handed him his cane, and nearly toppled over again, herself.

“Theresa, sit,” he said, indicating the chair.

“I’m missing a quadrille,” she stated, listening with exaggerated care to the muted sound of music beyond the door.

“You are not going out there. Sit down.” When she frowned at him, he jabbed a finger at the chair. “Sit. And stay there. I’ll find someone…discreet to assist you home.”

“But my dance card is full.”

Clearly logic wasn’t doing him much good at the moment. Using his greater height, he put a hand squarely in the center of her chest and pushed. Tess went down into the chair, her skirt floating up again and briefly revealing a lovely pair of knees. Bartholomew put his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned over her. “Stay here. Promise me.”

She looked up at him, her mouth so sweet and beckoning it made him ache. “I promise,” she finally said.

“Good.”

He turned for the door, sending a glance back over his shoulder to make certain she was still where he’d left her, then unlocked it and slipped out into the hallway again. She wouldn’t remain there long, and if she wandered out among the other guests drunk, tomorrow would likely find her fleeing to the nearest convent.

His gaze caught Amelia, out on the dance floor with Stephen. She would have sufficed, but inter
rupting her to have her hurry out of the room would cause too much attention. Then he saw Tess’s grandmother. Stifling a frown and hoping there was a reason Theresa was so fond of her, he limped in her direction.