As Rich as a Rogue (14 page)

She ought to take the warning of that spilt-second expression, but she'd always loved thunderstorms, and so she challenged him, trying to see if she could provoke him to explain. “Then tell me. You wish to be my husband? Then tell me not only what you want to do, but what I will do as your wife.” She tightened her grip. “Do you not understand? Do you not see what I need?”

“Work,” he said, clearly shocked. “You want to work.”

“And you want to play.”

“No.” He turned to her. “What I want is something a great deal more significant.”

She waited. It was a clash of wills between them right there in the middle of Hyde Park during the fashionable hour. They faced each other, brows drawn together, eyes flashing. She did not soften, and neither did he. If anything, he grew stronger, bolder, and his words came out like the crack of lightning, even though they were spoken low enough not to be overheard.

“I will show you.” He spoke it like a challenge, and she was startled to find herself rising to the bait. “Tomorrow night, can you escape your chaperones?”

Without the least bit of effort. She might be an unmarried virgin, but her parents trusted to her good sense. Which would be severely lacking if she went out at night alone with this man. “What do you mean to do?”

He smiled. “Trust me.”

And God help her, she did.

“Midnight,” she said. “Meet me at Lady Stokes's masquerade.”

The next morning was rushed, even more so because she'd spent the night wondering what Lord Whitly could possibly want to show her. Not to mention a few highly inappropriate dreams that left her restless and achy in places best not mentioned. Worse, they weren't technically dreams, since she'd been awake when those imaginings had wandered into her thoughts and refused to leave.

She felt as though she'd barely closed her eyes when her maid woke her with the message that Mr. Camden was waiting for her downstairs. He'd arrived two hours early for her meeting with Lord Rossgrove, insisting she be escorted. He also insisted that he was being helpful when he inspected her gown, her hair, even her shoes before he pronounced them acceptable. Well, almost acceptable, as she'd chosen a softer, less headache-creating hairstyle. He wanted her to change it to her usual severe style, but she refused, saying that she could not be clever with Lord Rossgrove while suffering from a migraine.

Naturally, Mr. Camden was nervous at her word “clever,” but she refused to be swayed. Lord Whitly had somehow induced her to become bolder with her statements, and she was loathe to give that up, even for an meeting as important as this. She was a clever girl, and Lord Rossgrove needed to understand that if they were to work together in support of Mr. Camden's career.

So they left an hour before the appointed time, her maid serving as a bored chaperone. All three rode in her father's carriage because it was more richly appointed than anything Mr. Camden could afford. And then, after all the pomp and anxiety, Lord Rossgrove kept them waiting in his front hallway. They weren't even shown into a parlor but left sitting on a bench.

It was a calculated move, she was sure, meant to show that they were petitioners for favor. Mr. Camden kept murmuring how gracious the man was to see them in his home. Obviously, he didn't understand the tactic, and frankly, his ignorance was becoming an irritant. Worse, no matter how much she reassured him that he had no need to hover, Mr. Camden would not leave.

Thankfully, after half an hour cooling their heels, Mr. Camden managed to restrain his anxiety long enough to sit down. In gratitude, Mari patted his hand and smiled.

“Never fear. I know what I am about,” she said softly, hoping it wasn't a lie. She had been thinking hard about how to handle this interview. Lord Whitly's comment that she had no power rankled. If the only thing Lord Rossgrove respected was power, she would pull on the trappings of it like a cloak. A smart man would not be fooled by such things. A petty man would resent her for it. Either way, she was determined to figure out exactly what kind of man Lord Rossgrove was, and for that, she had to out-pompous the butler and out-power Lord Rossgrove.

It would be a challenge indeed, but she relished the chance to try.

“Lord Rossgrove condescends to admit you into the library. Mind you do not touch, eat, or drink anything. You may sit if he offers it, but you must stand if he does not. And do not under any circumstances approach him closer than ten feet. That is the width of the desk plus the chairs. Do you understand? If he allows you to sit, you will claim the one farthest away. And you will show appropriate gratitude if that happy event should occur.”

It was that last comment that was the tipping point. She arched her brow and gestured to her hat and gloves, which rested neatly on the table appointed for such things.

“And you are not to touch my hat or gloves, sir, unless I specifically bid you to. If you should detect so much as a smudge on the silk, then you are allowed to clean it quickly with a brush—no bleach, for that would mark you as a fool—and I expect you to understand that I show you great favor in permitting such a thing. Normally only my most trusted maid would be given such a task.”

Mr. Camden gasped in horror, but Mari did not waver. To her distinct pleasure, the man stiffened in rigid outrage before bowing to show grudging respect. It was gone a moment later when he walked her with achingly slow steps to the library. He quietly opened the door, announced her, then silently withdrew. She didn't hesitate but proceeded to the chair closest to Lord Rossgrove's desk, where she waited, her brow arched, for him to stand, the way any gentleman would in the presence of a lady.

He didn't stand. In fact, he remained hunched over a ledger, which he perused with the intensity of a miser over a stack of coins. It was pretense, she was sure. He was merely waiting to see if she would sit, thereby accepting his rudeness to her as if she were a servant.

She did not.

In the end, he looked up, pretended to be surprised, and pushed to his feet.

“Miss Powel, please do sit down.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She made sure her voice was hoarse, and she cleared her throat delicately as she sat.

Lord Rossgrove frowned. “Are you well, Miss Powel?”

“Merely a dry throat, my lord. London can be so dusty.” By saying this, she pointed out that his butler had not served her tea, and he heard the underlying criticism clearly.

“Didn't Fletcher serve you? Bother the man.” Lord Rossgrove grabbed a bell and rang it in a loud clang. The butler appeared before the sound stopped echoing.

“My lord?”

“Bring Miss Powel some tea,” he said. “And be quick about it.”

Fletcher, poor man, forgot himself so much as to drop his mouth open in shock. But he recovered and quickly withdrew.

Excellent. It appeared that the trappings of power were working for her. So she settled into a relaxed position and smiled blandly at Lord Rossgrove, doing her best to imitate Lady Eleanor in body, speech, and attitude. At the moment, Eleanor would wait for the gentleman to take control of the conversation, and then she might or might not deign to respond.

Meanwhile, Lord Rossgrove mirrored her relaxed position and extended it, going so far as to let his head loll against the wing of his enormous desk chair. He was a tall gentleman with graying hair and large teeth, but his dress and attitude were restrained. Odd that so severe a man would have so wild a nephew, but young men didn't always follow the examples of their elders.

“I can see why Mr. Camden favors you,” he said finally, his voice slow and his lips pinched tight.

Mari had no idea how to respond to that, so she said nothing, merely arching her brow and tilting her head slightly as if she were listening intently to him or perhaps a bird twittering outside. It was a favorite pose of Lady Eleanor's. It worked beautifully, because Lord Rossgrove stumbled back into speech.

“You're above average pretty, know how to keep your tongue, and it appears you've surprised my butler. That's rare indeed.”

Again she made no response, but it didn't work as well this time. His expression tightened, and his next words came out like the snap of a whip.

“Most ladies would be thankful for the compliment.”

Power, she reminded herself. Pretend to the Queen's own power. Or at least Lady Eleanor's. “Compliment?” she said sweetly. “My apologies. It sounded more like a list of attributes, such as I might note the color of your furnishings or the large numbers in your ledger.”

He looked down as if surprised to see the tallies open before him. Then he smoothly closed the book. If he'd snapped it shut, she would have thought—possibly—it had been a mistake to leave them where she might see them. But the way he moved was too calculated a gesture. Which meant he had intended her to be impressed by the figures there.

She wasn't. After all, her father had equally grand numbers in his account book. So she smiled blandly at him and waited for tea. And again, he was the one who spoke.

“It was gauche of me to allow you to see that, but now that you have, let me be blunt. I am a wealthy man of great influence.” He preened a bit at that, and she knew that Lord Whitly had pegged him exactly. He gloried in his power and the wealth that brought him more power. “I believe I should like to exert myself on Mr. Camden's behalf.”

“I'm sure he will be most grateful.”

“He ought to be.” Then the man smiled at her, though the expression never touched his eyes. “How grateful are you?”

She arched a brow. She was becoming quite good at Lady Eleanor's expressions. “Why would I be grateful for consideration shown to Mr. Camden? There is no connection between us, no reason that his fortunes will affect mine one way or another.”

Lord Rossgrove was surprised by that. “There is no understanding between you two?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then why are you here?” Now the man began to show his true colors. He was irritated with her, but no more than she was with him.

“I am here,” she said tartly, “because you invited me, and I was curious. Plus, I believe your political interests and Mr. Camden's are aligned. He seemed to wish this meeting, and because I bear him good will, I agreed to call upon you this day.” Then she unfolded her hands and waved vaguely in his direction. “Was there some reason you wished to speak with me?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment, there was a quiet knock at the door. Fletcher, she assumed, with the tea tray.

Lord Rossgrove grimaced then grabbed his bell, ringing it with a loud clang. How obnoxious. He could simply have said enter, but he had to ring that thing as if it he were calling in sheep to their pen.

The door opened, and Fletcher stepped ponderously inside with a tray. He moved slowly to the table and set the thing down with the stiff airs of an octogenarian.

“Oh, be done with it, man,” snapped Lord Rossgrove, clearly out of temper.

Fletcher straightened in shock. It took him a moment to recover—slightly longer this time than before—but then bowed and departed with alacrity. Meanwhile, Mari began to see the appeal of obnoxious butlers. One had a great deal of fun discomfiting them.

She waited until the doors shut before reaching for the tea service. “Shall I pour?”

She was assuming the role of hostess, much as Lady Eleanor had done at Mari's home. Lord Rossgrove nodded, his eyes narrowed as he clearly revised his opinion of her. For the better, she hoped.

“Cream, my lord?”

“Sugar only,” he answered. “One spoonful.”

She served him, then herself. And she allowed only the tiniest portion to wet her lips. After all, she wasn't thirsty. The tea had been a statement, not a need. So they sipped, looking at each other over the rims of the delicate cups. Then Lord Rossgrove spoke, his words casual as he caught her completely by surprise.

“Tell me of Lord Whitly. What do you make of him?”

“What?” Damnation, why would the mention of his name seize up her belly and set her heart to a frenzy inside her chest?

“Lord Whitly. He's shown you marked attention, waltzing and the like. You have some silly wager going about a bird. And I understand he threw you off your horse.”

Gossip. Was her every action to be forever bandied about? “Lord Whitly is…” She couldn't bring herself to say
friend
. “Someone I've known for many years. He's recently returned from India and—”

“Presumably is a suitor for your hand. Will you choose him over Camden? He's got the title and the blunt that Camden lacks.” He leaned forward, pressing his advantage while she was still ridiculously aflutter. “What do you see in Mr. Camden that is missing in Whitly?”

A purpose. A direction. A damned goal that she could support. But she couldn't say those things. Her choice in husband was none of his business, so she resorted to Eleanor's tactic. She pushed to her feet, forcing him to scramble to his.

“Thank you for inviting me, Lord Rossgrove. This has certainly been an enlightening visit. I hope you—”

“I won't do it,” Rossgrove interrupted.

“What?”

“I won't put my money behind Camden without you.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because you're the making of him. Can't imagine what's taking the fool so long to tie your fortune to him.”

Well, that answer was clear. Because she hadn't allowed herself to be bold and powerful before. She'd spent all her time quietly nudging when she should have been shoving. Or demanding. How lowering to realize that her nemesis was right. Without Whitly's advice, she'd have been a quiet mouse of a woman without power or notice from anyone.

Well, if she was to own her new power, she had best learn to use it. So she lifted her chin.

“How disappointing,” she drawled. “I had thought you smarter than that, Lord Rossgrove.”

His brows snapped together. “What?”

“Mr. Camden is whip-smart and loyal. Two things you desperately need. Your political ambitions align, and he'll never betray you. If he has a failing, it's that he won't see your faults until it's too late for you both.”

Rossgrove arched a brow. “Presumably something that won't be a problem if you are at his side.”

She nodded slowly. “Very true. But you would be a fool to let him slip away, with or without me.”

He snorted, dismissing everything she said with the brutish sound. “I expect to hear of your engagement within the week.” His eyes narrowed. “Bring him up to scratch, Miss Powel.”

As if she hadn't been trying! But she was insulted by the order, and so her tongue got the better of her. “Or what, my lord? You will put your insensate nephew in the seat? Perhaps you favor a farmer, who will be ignored by everyone and make you a laughingstock? You have no power to command me, Lord Rossgrove.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Never dismiss the power of a man who hoards it like gold. She knew that, but her tongue had gone beyond her, and so he slapped her in the most civilized way he knew how.

“I can see your wayward temper has gotten the better of you. It must be your Welsh blood that makes you unsuitable. No wonder you haven't gotten married yet.”

The words were deliberate, the dismissal infuriating. How could he know the exact words to cut her to the quick? It was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears. Not one minute before, he'd been praising her as the making of Mr. Camden. Then she allowed her temper loose, and he dismissed her as a Wayward Welsh. Worse, he was waving her away as he sat down to his ledger with those grand numbers in neat little columns. Then he finished it with a final cold statement.