As Rich as a Rogue (8 page)

Mari meant to resist him. After all, he'd never actually asked if he could dance with her. He'd simply scrawled his name on her card and then proceeded to create this whole charade around it. And yet she never quite formed the words.

Instead, she felt his fingers as they intertwined with hers. He had large hands, but as her own fingers were rather long, they seemed to match quite well. Then she felt his other hand slide around her waist. His touch sent shivers down her spine in a delightful way. Never had she felt such awareness of a man in front of her, of his legs so near, of his face as he looked so intently down at her.

She ought to chastise him for taking liberties, but she let him draw her closer. His arm moved higher on her waist to wrap more around her back, which allowed his forearm to press ever so lightly into her shoulder. She felt surrounded by him, but not oppressively so. Then he began to move.

She didn't have to think about matching his steps. The rhythm of the music was steady, and his body was perfectly in tune with it. He guided her easily with just the slightest pressure. It felt as if they were one body. She breathed his air, he held her everywhere, and together they flew.

Heaven.

She could have danced like that for hours. She wanted to, but something this magical couldn't last long. Their steps slowed and eventually stopped. She stood still in his arms, her head dizzy from the dance and her body flushed with excitement. Champagne giddiness, she thought. As if there were bubbles of laughter in her blood and brain. Lord, if he weren't holding her, she might just float away.

“You dance wonderfully, Miss Powel,” he said, his voice thick.

“I don't think I've ever enjoyed anything more,” she said. No, no! She wasn't supposed to be in his thrall like this. She wasn't supposed to sound so breathy or feel tingles all over her body. It was not how a proper lady felt.

She could hear the titters around them. And if she looked, she knew she would see spiteful women whispering behind their fans. She knew what they were saying. Hadn't she been hearing it for the last six years?

Wayward Welsh.

“You have ruined me again, my lord,” she said, startled to realize that there was only defeat in her voice. She wasn't even angry with him. It was what the man did.

She dropped her arms, and he let her go, raising his arm to escort her back to her place near the now-empty seats for the dowagers.

“I think I shall go home,” she said mournfully. She hadn't the stomach to face the spiteful tabbies over supper. Not when she was so busy damning herself for her behavior.

How could she let him sweep her good sense away? It wasn't just the dance, though that was reason enough. But add in the entire wager with the dowagers and the way he'd ordered the orchestra to play a waltz just for them, and she felt mortification all the way down through her toes. It was an ill-bred spectacle, and she had allowed it.

“You cannot leave,” inserted Lord Rimbury as he sauntered up to her side. “That'll make them talk all the more.” He looked at Lord Whitly. “You should be the one to depart.”

Whitly frowned. “Why would I allow gossip to dictate to me one way or the other?”

Did he understand nothing? “You're a wealthy man who will one day inherit an earldom,” she said. “Of course you wouldn't allow gossip to deter you.”

“Exactly.” He folded his arms across his chest, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“But you aren't the only one being affected by your actions,” added Lord Rimbury.

Lord Whitly opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. His brows lowered in a dark glower, and his gaze hopped between his friend and Mari. And then he looked at the people around them, all whispering to one another. “It is only talk. Why do you let it hurt you?”

Because she was an unmarried woman in search of a husband. Because she wanted to be one of them some day. Not a bitter ape leader, but a woman accepted and powerful in her own sphere of influence. Because she dreamed of leaving her father's Welsh name and taking on an English one with a family of her own.

But she knew saying all that would not only be useless; it would reveal too much of what she held tight to her secret heart. So instead, she said what came easiest: to blame him for his inadequacy instead of looking at her own.

“You will never understand women if you do not consider that your actions have consequences not for you, but for anyone in a weaker position.”

He shook his head. “I have not hurt you, Miss Powel. Whispers behind fans are of no consequence. When I cause someone to poison your food or shoot you from the shadows, then you may harp at me. But this…” He gestured disdainfully to the people around them. “This is trivialities trussed up to be important.”

She gestured with her hands, a quick flick of her wrists to deflect his words. She wished they could, in truth, but she made sure her disgust of him showed plainly. “Why do you come into Society if you have no comprehension of it?”

He sighed, his expression frustrated. “Why indeed?”

She glared at him, wondering if he meant to answer his own question. But instead of speaking, he looked at her as if she could possibly fathom his motives.

Meanwhile, Lord Rimbury released a low whistle. “It's dreadfully hot in here. Should I get us something to drink?”

A brandy, she thought, but she didn't say it. Instead, she smiled at the man who was becoming a friend. “I should love some lemonade.”

“Excellent,” he answered, but before he left, Lord Whitly held out his hand.

“No, I'll get it. I'm afraid you're right. I should not have come here until my mind was settled.”

“Ah,” returned Lord Rimbury. “So it was bad at home, then?”

Oh dear. She'd been cutting up at him, when something dreadful had happened. And yet the man simply shrugged. “You know how tedious it is to look at endless pages of numbers. I fear my mind has run to madness after a week of it.”

“You were looking at your family accounts,” she deduced. It wasn't proper for her to speak of it, but she hated pretending to be a birdbrain. She often assisted her father with his ledgers when he wished to be especially private about it. And of course, any woman who wanted to hold a prestigious title would need to understand household money.

But rather than explain, he flashed a condescending smile. “Never fear. The title is still well heeled, and my own prosperity is not to be questioned.”

She wasn't questioning it. She'd been trying to be sympathetic. “Well, thank God for that,” she snapped. “Heaven knows you'd never survive penniless and without expectations.” Then she gaped at her own audacity. “Good God, you've made me shrewish.” How had he managed to take her so quickly from the joy of that lovely dance to this moment, when she couldn't speak a civil word?

She watched as his jaw clenched, the muscles in his throat working hard, but no sound came out. In the end, he executed a quick bow. “Lemonade then. I shall return slowly.”

She curtsied to him before watching him head for the drinks. “I don't know what it is,” she said to Lord Rimbury. “That man brings out the worst in me.”

“I think he brings out the honesty in you.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn't call what I just said honest. I expect he'd do fine dropped anywhere in the middle of anything. He is a winner, after all.” And by extension, that made everyone else—including her—the loser.

“I don't think he sees it as a game. Perhaps that is the problem.”

“What? Life?”

“Society, Miss Powel. You and I both see it as a game to be played and danced according to set rules. But I'm afraid Lord Whitly sees something vastly different here.”

“But what could he possibly see?”

Rimbury shook his head. “For that answer, I'm afraid you'll have to ask him.”

She would. In fact, the moment he returned with the drinks, she would find a way to understand this man who persisted in making all of her careful resolutions shatter into nothing. She turned, scanning the place where he'd last been, but didn't see him. Instead, she spied a footman heading their way. He was carrying a tray with two glasses of lemonade.

“Where'd he go?” she murmured.

Then she saw him. No one else could have that broad a back or so casually perfect brown locks. That was he at the top of the stairs as he left the ballroom, departing just when she'd screwed up the fortitude to ask him a serious question.

* * *

Mari did not enjoy waking early in London during the Season. In summer, she was always up and about while the sun was just topping the rise. The fresh air called to her, and she had plans in the summer. She helped her sister with her garden and in her stillroom, and her young twin cousins were always courting disaster somewhere. Not to mention that the village was an endless source of need, and she'd found purpose in helping at the school or at a task with the vicar's wife. But mostly she felt alive in the country in the way of a tree finally setting down roots.

Except, of course, they weren't her roots. They were her parents' roots, and all the work she did helped their standing grow in their village and on their land. None of it was her own. And none of it would bear fruit for herself or her children.

She desperately needed her own family, and to that end she husband-hunted. She endured long hours at balls and musicales. She slept late to preserve her looks, and maintained very strict diet and cosmetic regimens for optimum appearance of health and beauty.

Therefore, it was unusual and with grave reluctance that she struggled out of bed the next morning. It was a testament to how desperately she wished to speak with Lord Whitly that she managed to rouse herself at all. Plus, it was the only time to speak with him before her session with Greenie and afternoon calls. So she dragged herself out of bed, and dressed in a riding habit that was many Seasons out of date and scratchy to boot. Then she chose the most docile horse they owned and headed to Rotten Row with a groom trotting behind her. She approached the Row slowly, her composure already starting to desert her. The avid riders were out in full force today, and the thunder of horses' hooves pounded in her head. She saw perhaps a dozen gentlemen and nearly as many women. They rode like the wind and laughed with gleeful delight. Their horses were beautiful and their tack designed for show.

What had she been thinking? There was no possible way she could show to advantage among these people. She hadn't ridden in years and was already becoming sore.

She was just turning around to tell her groom they were heading back, when she saw him: Lord Whitly flying toward them on a moderate-size horse. Pounding down the stretch toward her, his creature was fast.

She stopped to stare, as did many others, especially the women. And when he finally drew up, his cheeks were red, his eyes dancing, and he turned to Lord Rimbury, who thundered in behind him.

“Good Lord, she's amazing,” Lord Rimbury said as he pulled his stallion to a trot. “Odd-looking to be sure, but damned fast.”

The mare wasn't odd-looking, at least not for a horse from India. It had a gorgeous reddish color coat, though not so even as to be fully prized. The inward-turning ear tips were no doubt what appeared odd-looking to Lord Rimbury, but Mari knew it was the whorls underneath the creature's eyes that were the most damning of its features.

Meanwhile, Lord Whitly grinned and smoothed down his horse's mane. “She's a beauty,” he said before leaning forward to speak to his mare. His words were in Hindi, but clear enough to Mari, who had spent several years in that foreign country while her father made his fortune. “You're my best lady,” he said. “And you'll get fine oats tonight.”

“A beauty to be sure,” she said in that same language. “And I'll wager you got her for a song with those whorls.”

He turned to her, his eyes widening in surprise. “Miss Powel! I didn't know you spoke Hindi.”

“I don't as a rule,” she said in English. “It's been a very long time.” Then she looked about her and flushed. She hadn't even realized she'd come close enough to converse with the man, and yet suddenly she was beside him. A moment later, he aligned his mare with hers and they began walking together.

“You obviously remember enough,” he said in English. “And you're right, the eye whorls dropped the price significantly.”

“What?” asked Lord Rimbury as he joined her on the other side. “What do you mean?”

Mari gestured to the hair pattern along the horse's nose. “A whorl on the nose is unlucky, but on the neck is very good. Better still would be a whorl on the fetlocks, which means victory.”

“The devil, you say,” Lord Rimbury exclaimed.

“You know your Marwari horses,” Lord Whitly commented.

No, she didn't. But since gentlemen enjoyed horses, she'd read up on the Indian breeds when she'd begun husband-hunting. It gave her a relevant topic of conversation and a way to cast her time in India in a beneficial light. Not every man thought a childhood spent outside of England a good thing in a woman.

“I had a groom in India who liked to share tales,” she said.

“Truly?” he asked. “I didn't think grooms chattered to the young ladies of the house.”

“I pestered him until he talked to me,” she said, a little unnerved that he listened so closely to what she said. It startled her enough to reveal the full truth. “And I read more about them when I learned that gentlemen often love anything to do with horses.”

“Of course,” he said, his tone neutral.

Meanwhile, on her other side, Lord Rimbury pulled out his pocket watch and muffled a curse. “I'm done for,” he said, his tone morose. “Have to get cleaned up before meeting with the banker about a pasture property.”

She turned to smile at him. “Are you acquiring, my lord?”