As Rich as a Rogue (5 page)

“You may count on me.” She refolded her list. It might be a list about a man's requirements, but in truth, it was all about her. About the woman she would have to be to attract a man like that. She returned it to her reticule, next to her folded list of possible husbands. Many of the top tier were crossed off as unattainable or unsuitable. Mr. Camden was the highest available to her now, and he was number twenty-seven.

Meanwhile, Lady Eleanor clasped her hands together and started to rise. “Do you intend to go to Lady Barnes's ball tonight, Mrs. Winter's musicale, or the theater?”

“The theater tonight, and Lady Carlyle's ball tomorrow.”

“Very well. I shall see you tomorrow then, as I'm to the musicale.”

Mari scrambled to follow. “But…but what are we to do about Lord Whitly?”

“Ignore him. You have the approval of myself and the patronesses of Almack's. If you cannot turn that to your advantage, then you are not as clever as I thought.”

Mari stared at her a moment, then blurted out her thoughts. “But you are here to help me.” In fact, Papa had
paid
her to help.

“And I am. I am giving you my approval. The rest is up to you.” Then she gave her a beatific smile. “Don't fret so much. I think your gowns are perfectly sound.”

Then she departed. Horace must have been listening, because he opened the parlor door with perfect timing. Mari stood silently, watching as Eleanor donned her outer wraps and walked away.

Mari never said a word. She most certainly didn't scream or rail that the woman had been paid to give better advice. That she'd been less than useless in offering sympathy. And most of all, that Mari absolutely, positively did not want to wear
perfectly sound gowns
!

Which meant there was only one thing left to do. One simple and perfect choice. She was going to teach that dratted bird to say “happy day,” and then she was going to stand over Lord Whitly and gloat. Yes, she was going to savor every second that man was on his knee before her, and she wouldn't let him up until Easter!

“Happy day, you dratted bird.”

Peter and Lady Illston's butler paused outside the back parlor door. It wasn't good form to laugh while in the company of someone else's butler. Indeed, it wasn't good form for the butler to be chuckling under his breath either, but the two men exchanged amused glances and then—good man—the butler bowed and withdrew.

That left Peter free to open the door quietly to the parlor in which Miss Powel was trying to tempt the parakeet with a piece of apple.

“Come on, Greenie, I have a bit of apple for you. Happy day. Happy day. Happy day.”

The bird tried to reach for the apple, but she pulled it away, thereby demonstrating that she knew nothing at all about training birds. Specific treats should be tied to the phrase. Therefore, the creature ought to be stuffed on apple right now as she kept repeating “Happy day.”

He began to think he would likely win this wager. Which made it unfortunate that he had little interest in their wager one way or the other. He'd come here for an entirely different purpose.

Still, that didn't stop him from appreciating how her body twitched with her frustration. She was an animated woman with a nice bum, neatly outlined as she leaned over the table and tried to entice the creature. Given that he was built on a large scale, he liked a woman with curves.

Mari was a woman of middling height, perfect complexion, and bright amber eyes. Her breasts were lush, her hips tempting, and her lips were on the proper side of sinfully dark. But mostly, she was alive in his mind in a way that no other woman ever approached. And right now, she was dropping into a nearby chair, clearly at odds with the world.

“You're an awful bird, and I hate this game,” she grumbled.

He was too amused by her to realize his mistake until it was too late. With Miss Powel in a chair, the bird could see him. And right on cue, the creature greeted him.

“Winner, winner!”

Peter grinned at the bird and crossed into the room. “Good morning, Greenie.” A simplistic, stupid name for such an intelligent bird. “Miss Powel.”

He tried not to notice how she'd leapt from her chair, her bosom jiggling and her color deepening to a delightful rose.

“Lord Whitly!” Shock and horror on her face. “What are you doing here?”

“I believe your hour is up, Miss Powel.” He gestured with one hand to the mantel clock. With the other, he fed the creature a bit of carrot, which was greedily consumed. “Good bird.”

“Oh,” she said as she obviously took in the time. “Nevertheless, you should have announced yourself.”

“I'm sorry if I startled you,” he said, but she suddenly gasped and clenched her fists.

“And now you know my phrase!”

He leaned against the table, wondering why she chose to wear such an insipid shade of pink. It was so dull, even the matching ribbon looked bored.

“I knew it before,” he said, “so there's no harm done there.”

“You couldn't possibly.”

He nodded as he looked at her hair. She'd done it up into a tight bun that pulled her skin flat across her forehead. Bloody painful to look at. He wondered why she didn't have a headache.

Meanwhile, he answered her unspoken question. “You didn't shade your mouth when you whispered it to Lady Illston. I could read it off your lips.”

She gaped at him, her hand going to her mouth. Pity to cover up one of her best features. “That's not possible,” she said.

“I assure you, it is.” And when she simply shook her head, he allowed himself to revel in one of his fondest memories from his childhood. “I had a playmate as a boy. His father worked at the stable, and we often ran off together to explore. Then one year, he took a fever. An ugly disease, but he survived. Except he was deaf from then on.”

“Winner, winner!” the bird cried.

“Greedy thing,” he said as he passed the creature more carrot.

“He could read language off a person's lips? How extraordinary.”

“He was much better at it than I, for obvious reasons, but we learned it together. And I kept up the knack because…” He shrugged. “I suppose I don't like it when people keep secrets from me.”

“But that's cheating!”

He tilted his head. She couldn't possibly think that. And yet looking at her flashing eyes, he realized she was truly that innocent. To think that cheating was comprised of reading someone's lips. Replacing the bird was cheating. Preventing the woman from spending time with the creature was cheating. Knowing the woman's phrase was just simple skill.

But rather than explain that, he decided to pursue his primary goal. The one where she tumbled headlong into love with him. And that, of course, began with simple flattery.

“It is not cheating. And I cannot help it if I find your lips particularly fascinating.”

She blinked at him, and her cheeks flamed like fire. Obviously she wasn't used to compliments, because she immediately began stammering.

“You—I—” Her hands went from her mouth to her blazing cheeks, and she glared at him.

“Don't cover up. Your looks are stunning when you blush,” he added.

“I never blush!” she said, her tone full of accusation.

He grinned. He liked watching her when she was flustered. “Then occasionally, you have a particularly florid complexion.”

Her hands dropped to her sides, and she visibly got control of herself. “You are an odious man.”

And right there was what he'd come to discover. She obviously still held him in contempt, but for the life of him, he couldn't see why.

He shifted his weight so he was sitting more fully on the table. It wasn't a proper way to be in front of a lady, but he was trying to encourage her to feel less proper around him. They were alone. It was a lucky stroke that Lady Illston's butler was amenable to bribery.

But far from being more casual in his presence, she tightened even more. Her hands twitched, and her brows narrowed. Clearly, she didn't like his air of insouciance, so he relaxed even more. It was the imp in him, he was sure, but he did like vexing her.

“I have a wager with one of my oldest friends,” he began.

“I'm sure you do—”

“It's about you.”

She blew out an annoyed breath. “I'm sure it is.”

Well, there was a wealth of meaning in that, but she didn't elaborate, so he leaned back and studied her slowly as he spoke. He wanted to memorize every nuance of her reaction.

“He believes you hold me in such contempt that if I were to propose to you right now, you would throw my words right back in my face. Worse, you would crow to every one of your intimates the insult I had done you by offering to make you my countess.”

She lifted her chin, and her eyes flashed fire. He hadn't thought amber eyes could make him think of searing heat, but her expression downright burned.

“Do you mock me, sir?”

“Not in the least.” He leaned forward. “My position is that you would be appropriately flattered and would weigh my offer with the consideration it deserves.”

“Well,” she said with a laugh, “I would certainly do that.” By which she meant she would discard his proposal as if it were bad meat.

He shook his head at the insult. He was due to inherit an earldom. Surely she understood that. “I cannot credit that a woman of good sense would toss aside a future earl so cavalierly.”

“Good sense? Is that how you would describe me?”

“Well, of course—”

“I thought it was
wayward
.”

He sighed. “You cannot possibly still be angry about that.”

She jolted forward a step, and he had to scramble off the table to maintain the slightest semblance of decency. Meanwhile, her fists landed on the table on either side of him. It was a startling, masculine gesture, one that made him want her even more. Especially as it put her face right close to his.

“Of course I am still furious! How can you be so thickheaded? Do you know what my last six years have been like? Everyone thinks me wild.”

“Wild? I thought that was your sister.”

She hit him. She flat-out punched him across the jaw. He saw it coming. He'd have had to be blind to miss it, but she did connect with his chin, though it glanced painlessly away. Then she stepped back and shook out her hand, muttering under her breath.

“Fisticuffs! That is what he brings me to. Damn, that hurts.”

He looked at the way she jerked in front of him. Like lightning dancing, spastic and beautiful all at once.

“Well, obviously you have no brothers to teach you how to do that properly.”

“I do most certainly have a brother!” she snapped.

“Younger, then, and remiss in your instruction.”

“He… I… I have no need to learn how to hit a man.” She took a deep breath, shot him a glare that practically sizzled across his skin, and straightened up to her full middling height. “Your friend has won his wager with you. I would indeed throw your proposal back in your arrogant face.”

“Because I named you wayward to a scoundrel who meant to dupe you? So he would stay away?”

“Yes! What? No!” She crossed her arms below her bosom, plumping them nicely. If she weren't still pacing back and forth, he might have thought it a practiced move. Now he suspected she was merely keeping herself from trying to punch him again.

“Fitzhugh is a jackanapes, through and through,” he said. “I was doing you a kindness by steering him away from you.”

“By saddling me with a label that was repeated over and over for the last six Seasons?”

He shrugged. “You were already labeled Welsh. Wayward or wild could hardly make it any worse.”

She gaped at him. Her mouth popped open, her eyes shone bright with unshed tears, and she seemed to vibrate with suppressed emotion.

“That's not true!”

He studied her body. Indeed, it was something he was prone to do quite often in his memory. But in this case, instead of focusing on her more feminine wiles, he looked at her tight shoulders and the way she bit her lip, a little more on the right side than the left. In truth, she looked a little lost.

“It is true,” he said as gently as he could. “
Welsh
is little better than a gel from the Colonies. Surely you know that.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, it's because you said that horrid thing.”

He didn't contradict her. In general, he found arguing to be a great waste of time. So he simply waited while she fought with her thoughts. Eventually, she would realize he was right, but it might take her a while. But then that imp inside him pushed him to tease her. “And besides, it's true, isn't it? I mean, everyone is a little bit—”

“You, sir,” she interrupted, “are a boor!”

He'd been called much worse, but still the words stung. “And you, my dear, are…” Innocent. Spirited. Beautiful. “Wayward.”

“Oh!” She reacted as a woman this time. Open palm as she went to slap him. Again, he saw the move coming and easily caught her arm. But instead of releasing her or allowing her to draw back, he jerked her close to him. He pulled her tight, so her breasts lifted and lowered against his chest. Her ruby lips were parted and so close, and her amber eyes were right before him, as mesmerizing as any cobra in India.

“Shall I tell you what I remember of that night?”

“No—”

He spoke right over her. “I remember asking you to dance and being pleased when you agreed. Then step by step, whenever we were close, you began to eviscerate me.”

She nearly choked on her gasp of outrage. “I did no such thing.”

“You whispered things into my ear, so soft I had to bend to hear them. I thought they would be sweet confessions or delicate words.”

“You had just damned both me and my sister. I heard it clearly. And then, I watched Fitzhugh repeat it to everyone at the ball.”

He barely heard her. He was too caught up in the memory of her words from that night, of the tight horror in his chest, and the dull agony of knowing he had to complete the dance or lose composure in front of the whole
ton.
“You called me a useless fribble, wasting my life and my money away. You named me cruel and lazy. But more than that, you said I was the worst kind of Englishman, because I did nothing of any value.” With his free hand, he lifted her chin until they stood eye to eye. “You called me useless that night, Miss Powel. You destroyed me.”

He hadn't meant to reveal that to her. In truth, he hadn't even thought those words in such a way before this very moment. But the strength with which he gripped her, the anger that seethed in his blood, and the resentment that blistered his tongue as he spoke, all pointed at how hideous that moment had been for him.

Broken furniture was useless. A drunken servant was useless. He was a peer of the realm, or would be when he inherited. By definition, he was not useless.

And yet in the short time of a single dance, she'd laid his soul bare and named it useless. It was only his pride that had made him finish the dance before he gave her a dismissive bow then fled. He'd gone as fast as he could to the nearest brothel, where he'd gotten himself blind drunk then robbed by the strumpets. And when that hadn't worked to blot out her words, he'd run all the way to India.

And that had been the making of him.

That too was why he loved her. Because she had said exactly what he'd needed to hear in exactly the way to force him out of his lethargy. If she hadn't flayed him alive, he'd likely still be sunk deep in drink and cunny. And all anyone would ever say of him was…

“Useless,” he repeated in a hissing whisper. “You named me useless.”

“Clearly I was wrong,” she said. “You were powerful enough to make me suffer for six years.”

“And you were vicious enough to send me to India, where, I assure you, I had much worse done to me than a little name-calling.”