Birds of a Feather (3 page)

“Sweet little dog,” she crooned, finding her voice under the influence of Max’s charm. “You are having a miserable day, aren’t you. That nasty nurse tried to beat you with her umbrella. And a horse nearly stepped on you. You really must be more careful, you know. If that cat had been less of a coward, it would be dining on you at this very minute. And how did you run afoul of those horrid boys? Wicked monsters! Are you all right?”

Max squirmed with pleasure, licking her fingers.

“He will be fine,” Sedge assured her, adopting a stern tone to hide his relief.

She ignored him, prattling as inanely as his aunt and her dotty friends, her focus wholly on the dog, who was now pressed close to her side. She seemed unaware of his own presence, which made his fight to regain control of an unruly body even more irritating.

“He will be fine,” he repeated sharply, furious at being ignored. “But I can hardly say the same for you. What sort of idiot steps into the street without checking for traffic?”

That gained her attention. “I didn’t … that’s not…” She inhaled deeply several times, lowering her gaze to his cravat. “Are you sure he is all right?”

“Of course.” How dare she question his judgment? The woman was more addled than he’d thought. “He merely escaped Lady Barkley’s garden again. As for you, this is London, not a country village. If you wish to survive, think before you act – or stay at home.”

“Of all the presumptuous—”

“Thus speaks the woman who threw herself in front of a carriage,” he scoffed, interrupting. “Hen-witted fool. Are you even aware that I just saved your miserable life?” Giving her no chance to respond, he batted her hand aside and scooped Max into his arms. “Come along, Maximillian. Your taste in friends grows worse each day.”

Max growled, snapping at his chin.

He tightened his grip, glaring at the scruffy animal.

“I can carry him,” the woman offered. “He seems to like me.”

“Which proves his lack of intelligence. Why would I trust an animal to someone incapable of crossing a street unescorted?” he demanded, stifling an urge to wring her neck. He hardly expected instant adulation, but couldn’t she at least thank him for risking his life?

He nearly grimaced as his body recalled her curves. Even his façade was slipping out of his control. Never had he met anyone who elicited such a debilitating range of emotions.

Ignoring her reversion to stammered gibberish, he collected his walking stick, noting the chipped head where it had hit the cobbles. Turning his back on the woman, he headed for Barkley House, even more annoyed than before. This was not how he wanted to pass the afternoon.

“Don’t turn that innocent look on me,” he grumbled at the dog. “Your mistress may fall for that trick, but I know you better. That was a nauseating performance just now. How can you lower yourself to grovel? And to a brainless idiot.”

Now that he had no female to wheedle, Maximillian squirmed around to lay a paw on Sedge’s chest.

“No, I won’t forgive you, you beastly little rat. It is bad enough that you’ve ruined my walking stick, my coat, and my newest pantaloons. Must you also destroy my waistcoat and shirt? Turrett will weep,” he added, naming his valet. “He truly loved this outfit.”

Maximillian yelped in delight.

“Proud of yourself, aren’t you. Stupid dog. This escapade was not one of your brighter ideas. Adventures are all very well in the country, but sneaking about in London will be the death of you. I cannot be forever available to rescue you from these antics.”

Maximillian hung his head.

“As well you should. I must now summon my coach, for I dare not resume my walk. Appearing on the street in so disheveled a state would destroy my reputation.”

It was true. Even if none of Maximillian’s blood smeared his coat, dusty paw prints would never escape notice. Every eye turned his way whenever he ventured out. And though he was noted for poking fun at current
on-dits
, how could he describe this encounter without appearing ridiculous? Not only had the woman ignored him, but his own reactions did him no credit.

“But summoning my carriage will not be the worst penalty I must pay,” he continued. A commotion in the square was attracting attention, so if he reached Barkley House unseen, he could avoid any questions. “Your mistress is undoubtedly at home.”

He cursed, then cursed again when he reached his destination, for his fears proved prescient. His aunt insisted on serving tea, then demanded to know when he planned to wed. She’d been his mother’s bosom bow since childhood, and the two remained close. He wasn’t sure which of them was more adamant about setting up his nursery. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? He would eventually wed, but in his own time and for his own pleasure.

By the time his carriage finally arrived, he felt like striking something.

CHAPTER TWO

Joanna swore under her breath as her rescuer left, carrying the dog. Mortification heated her cheeks. After only a week in town, she had already made a cake of herself. Would she never learn to think before acting?

Heedlessness had been her bane for years. When something caught her attention, she forgot all else. Her penchant for walking into trouble was well-known around Cavuscul Hill, her frequent trances spawning countless jokes. So far she had injured only herself – a broken arm at age fifteen, cracked ribs at eighteen, concussion at twenty-four – but eventually she would harm someone else.

She shivered.

The concussion wasn’t heedlessness, insisted a voice in her head. Don’t be so critical.

True. That incident had been deliberate. She had known the bull was there, but leaving the Watkins boy sprawled in the pasture had been impossible. Cuts, scrapes, and a concussion were a small price to pay for a child’s life.

Yet today’s incident could have cost her much more, and this time there was no excuse for her carelessness. Waiting for the carriage to pass would have made no difference, but she hadn’t even noticed it. Thank heaven her anonymous rescuer had come along. She could have been badly hurt – or worse.

His scold was well deserved. Even minor injuries could have consigned her to bed, ruining Harriet’s Season and leaving Wicksfield in the lurch. She should have mentioned her problem during that interview, but she had been sure that her concentration would remain on Harriet, who would thus benefit from her single-mindedness.

Her cheeks heated. Wicksfield had asked if she could handle the job, and she had said yes. Despite knowing her history, she had agreed. The bitter truth was that she had wanted to visit London so badly that she had lied by omission. If she had told him, he would have hired someone else.

Guilt gnawed at her conscience. She had set the stage for disaster with her lie. What if she fell into an abstraction when she was with Harriet? What if she approved the wrong suitor because she had missed evidence that he had a venal nature? What if she walked into a wall or knocked over a punch bowl, drawing ridicule onto Wicksfield’s family. It wasn’t an idle fear. She had already been guilty of those offenses and more. Her clumsiness attracted as much ridicule as her heedlessness.

So far, she had managed well. Except for treading on a dowager’s foot last night… And jostling the butler’s arm so he spilled soup in her lap… And that little problem at the inn last week … but that had been the maid’s fault; people carrying loaded trays should not rush around corners.

Are you blind or merely stupid?

She was not managing well at all, now that she considered it. Her cheeks heated. Her rescuer was undoubtedly one of the gentlemen Harriet would meet over the next few days. Would this encounter hurt the girl’s chances?

Grimacing, she headed home, grateful that everyone she met was hurrying toward the escalating battle in the square. The foolishness of an impoverished chaperon could never compare to such drama, thank God. She was embarrassed enough as it was.

Her gentleman had actually been quite chivalrous, she admitted as she passed the house into which he had disappeared. Most men would have ignored her in their rush to watch the fight. And even those who might have pulled her out of harm’s way would never have seen after the dog.

In fact, rescuing her had been more than remarkable. She was wearing an ancient cloak over one of her older gowns, for she donned her new clothes only when escorting Harriet. He must have known that she was a person of no consequence, yet he had risked his life to drag her out of danger, jerking her with such force that her spectacles had slid down to cling precariously to the tip of her nose.

She frowned.

The longer she thought about it, the more incongruous his actions appeared. He’d made no pretense of approving her and had actually sneered at her appearance. His own had been very elegant, his clothing unusually formal for afternoon wear. Which made his behavior incomprehensible.

None of the gentlemen she had met this past week would deign to touch a filthy, bleeding dog. Especially a scraggly mop of indeterminate breeding. Yet he had not only examined the animal, but had actually picked it up, holding it comfortingly against his coat despite its objections. Even knowing the animal did not explain such disregard for his clothing. So he must be an unusual man.

New heat rushed to her face. Her own behavior had been appalling. The stupidity of rushing in front of a carriage was bad enough, but mortification had kept her from acknowledging his presence. Then she had compounded her sins by babbling so incoherently that he could not have understood a word.

That was another of her curses: Embarrassment tied both tongue and brain in knots, turning words into a mishmash of incomprehensible gibberish and mortifying truths – like the time she had addressed Lord Lipping by the village girls’ nickname of Lord Liplock, derived from his penchant for kissing the maids.

She had been forgiven that one. Not so the incident of the squire’s steward. In her embarrassment over stumbling into a private discussion while in a trance, she had wondered aloud if the steward really
was
skimming the profits. The squire hadn’t suspected. The steward lost his job and threatened revenge. Both had been furious with a mere girl for meddling in men’s affairs. No one cared that the information had been true.

She shook her head. At least she had only prattled to the dog this time instead of blurting out something horrid – like admiration for his broad shoulders, powerful arms, and unexpectedly muscular chest.

Goose bumps tickled her neck, for he was very well set-up. The encounter had made her too aware of his assets. No padding enhanced that physique, and his strength had astonished her. She was not a frail, petite miss like Harriet. She was as tall as many men, and no one would ever describe her as slender. Yet he had picked her up as though she weighed nothing, crushing her to him from shoulder to thigh, and proving that her head fit perfectly…

Forget his assets!

She repeated the admonition as she climbed the steps to Wicksfield House. He had dismissed her as the insignificant servant she was. Nothing but pain could come from mooning over his splendid form. Her duty lay with Harriet, who would need all her attention. Distractions would lead to disaster, betraying Lord Wicksfield’s trust.

* * * *

The carriage crept closer to Ormsport House through streets jammed with the cream of Society.

“Pay attention, Harriet,” snapped Lady Wicksfield, her nerves overset by the lengthy delay. The other gatherings they had attended had not been squeezes. “You will meet all the best gentlemen tonight, so you must remember which ones to encourage.” She sniffed. “Why did Symington have to wed? As heir to a duchy that controls a legendary fortune, he would have been perfect.”

“Which is irrelevant,” pointed out Joanna. “He was betrothed well before the Season began. In fact, his betrothal predates your decision to launch Harriet.” The wedding had been discussed often during morning calls, but descriptions of Symington made him sound far too intelligent to have any interest in Harriet. “You could as profitably mourn the loss of any gentleman who wed before meeting her – including the Regent. After all, if he had only waited another three-and-twenty Seasons, he might have chosen Harriet, and we would not now be mourning the loss of the only heir to the throne.”

Apparently the sarcasm worked. Lady Wicksfield squared her shoulders, addressing her daughter. “Lord Almont is an excellent possibility. He seemed quite taken with you last night, and Lady Thurston claims he is seeking a wife. Mr. Parkington was equally smitten. He lacks a title, but his connections are good, and his fortune is excellent. But you must discourage Mr. Singleton.”

“It is early days to be narrowing her choices.” Joanna interrupted before Lady Wicksfield’s admonitions overset Harriet. The girl had a soft heart that made it impossible to refuse any request – another reason Joanna’s job included screening all suitors. “Mr. Singleton is too young to consider marriage, but he comes from a good family and is well liked, so his attentions are beneficial.”

“Very astute,” agreed Lady Wicksfield. “Amassing a large court will attract notice.”

“Let us not dwell on individual suitors,” she begged. “For now, I am more concerned with manners. This is the first top-drawer gathering we’ve attended, so making a good impression is crucial.”

“I know that,” said Harriet.

“But we will review it again, because most of the Almack’s patronesses will be here tonight. You must remain at my side whenever you are not dancing.”

“Of course,” murmured Harriet, but her mind was clearly elsewhere.

“What did I just say?”

“Don’t go outside?”

She sighed. “You should not go outside without my permission, but I was talking about watching your manners inside as well. The patronesses will be here this evening.”

“The Almack’s ladies? What if I do something wrong?” She had Harriet’s attention, but fear now blazed from the girl’s eyes.

“You won’t, if you are careful. Smile. And always think before you speak.”

“About what?”

“About the words you want to say and whether they will draw censure.”