Leslie Lafoy (9 page)

Harry took a half step back, his eyes wide in horror. “Good God, you haven’t taken up politics, have you?”

“I was getting myself engaged.”

“No,” Harry countered, laughing.

“Yes.”

His cousin instantly sobered, blinked several times, and then quickly glanced over both of his shoulders before leaning close to ask, “To Lady Fiona Turnbridge?”

Fiona worried about having children that limped? He was far more concerned with the likelihood of producing a village of idiots. “Is there,” he dryly asked, “another Ryland female who’s unattached whom I don’t know about?”

Again Harry looked over his shoulders before saying in a furtive whisper, “Good God, Ian. Why her?”

Ian shrugged. “She showed up on my doorstep in the wee hours of this morning, brandishing a loaded pistol and carrying an injured cat. I couldn’t very well close the door in her face, and by the time the cat and I were both assured of seeing another day, that day had arrived. Given the appearances of her leaving my house in the early morning hours, there wasn’t anything to be done but head off the scandal with a marriage proposal.”

Harry shook his head, took a single step forward to impede a waiter long enough to get a glass of champagne for himself, and then came back to Ian’s side saying tartly, “In other words, she trapped you.”

Ian tamped down his flaring anger and looked over at his cousin. “She did no such thing. In fact, she initially refused to accept my proposal.”

“They all do at first,” Harry assured him in a worldly tone. “It’s part of the whole innocence facade. I can’t believe that a man of your experience fell for it.”

A man of his experience knew a genuine lady when he saw one. That Harry didn’t was no great surprise, but his willingness to insult out of ignorance was disappointing. Ian turned to face his cousin and met his gaze squarely, saying, “Lady Fiona is a remarkably honest young woman, Harry. Please accept that assertion as fact and don’t tread on her character again.”

Harry, lackwit that he was, grinned. “You’re actually smitten with her, aren’t you?”

Smitten? Dim-witted and a romantic.
“Hardly,” Ian answered on a snort. “Let’s just say, shall we, that from what I’ve seen so far, she possesses some unique qualities and that I realize that I could have done far worse for myself in the marriage mart.”

“Her ability to look through people being one of those unique qualities. A rather dubious one, if you ask me.”

He hadn’t asked and quite frankly didn’t care what his cousin thought. Despite those facts, Ian felt compelled to reply, “Harry, the only people she looks through are those with nothing to see when she searches inside them.”

“Oh. That’s even more disconcerting. That would suggest that she can see all the dirty little personal secrets.”

An intriguing thought. What secrets did he have? He’d given John Albright two answers on their final chemistry exam. And he hadn’t told anyone that Morris Preston had robbed a grave for his required dissection cadaver. There was the matter of the mysterious theft of quinine from the medical stores in New Delhi, but to his mind the fact that it had gone to treat local orphans rather balanced out the less-than-scrupulous means of attaining it. That children died in the process of compiling paperwork and making petitions for permission was unacceptable.

Of course there was the affair with Amanda Masters. If a person were to tally his sins without asking for explanations, cavorting with a fellow doctor’s wife would undoubtedly count heavily against him. How much providing her a happy respite from her deeply unhappy marriage would be to his credit, though … At the time it had seemed not only a justifiable thing to do, but downright honorable.

And it wasn’t as though he’d walked away without paying a price for the illicit relationship; without telling him, Amanda had named him as her daughter’s guardian in the event of her death. Caring for Charlotte definitely qualified as penance. At least for the moment. Once he and Lady Fiona were—

“Your mother,” Harry said from beside him, “is not going to be happy with this choice, you know. Lady Fiona’s past isn’t exactly sterling.”

Through absolutely no fault of her own. “My mother lives to be unhappy. It’s her only satisfaction in life. And I long ago gave up any hope of changing her disposition.”

“Well, let’s cross our fingers that Lady Fiona can develop a similarly dismissive attitude about her.”

Ian shrugged and took a sip of his champagne. “It won’t be necessary,” he assured his cousin. “My mother understands the basic reason why she has her residences, I have mine, and that there are several days’ traveling distance between them.”

“Except when you’re both in London,” Harry pointed out. “I assume you’ve already written to tell her that you’re on the verge of taking the great matrimonial leap and invited her to be here for the occasion.”

“The best thing about having respectable females in your life is that they liberate you from the details of social expectations. Lady Ryland wrote her this afternoon, asking her for her guest list for the engagement ball. I’m sure she also included the expected niceties about looking forward to meeting her in the near future.”

“That should be interesting,” Harry offered with a droll chuckle. “The Dressmaker Duchess Ryland does battle with the Dowager Dragon Dunsford. You could probably sell tickets to the contest, you know, and make a tidy little sum.”

Tickets were a possibility only if the confrontations weren’t done in full public view. “It might not be a battle at all,” he posed hopefully. “They might well find themselves agreeable on everything.”

Harry snorted before retorting, “Not once in all of my life have I seen your mother graciously cooperate with anyone about anything. Things are done her way or they’re not done at all. She’s contrary for the sake of being contrary.”

True. “I’m sure Lady Ryland will be able to achieve some sort of harmony. If today was any sort of indication, she’s very good at seizing control of situations.”

“Well, I just hope that you’ve thought to warn Lady Fiona of what awaits her in terms of her future mother-in-law’s proclivities and expectations. To let her wander into the maws of that beast without a warning would be unconscionably cruel.”

“I’ve hinted at it.”

“You better do more than hint. And the sooner the better.”

“Agreed,” Ian said before taking another sip of his drink.

“Have you hinted to her about Charlotte, as well?”

What did it say about his character that he found his irascible mother easier to talk about than his tempestuous, deeply grieving ward? “I’ll explain fully as soon as the opportunity naturally presents itself.”

Harry made a humming sound that held the unmistakable notes of censure, then suddenly straightened his shoulders and stiffened his spine. “Speaking of opportunity…” He lifted his glass toward the ballroom entry. “Lady Baltrip has arrived.”

Damn. So much for long odds and the hope that he wouldn’t have to decide between being honorable and pleasured. He glanced back over his shoulder at the safe haven of the potted palms.

“Ah,” Harry drawled around a grin. “Given the twinkle in her eye, I’d say that she has fond memories of your stroll in the garden last night.”

Twinkle in her eye? So much for hiding in the greenery. Lady Baltrip would see any sort of seclusion as an opportunity for a—

“How long before you’re clapped in manacles?” Harry asked as Lady Baltrip began making her way across the ballroom toward them.

“I beg your pardon?” Ian asked, his mind staggering through his rapidly dwindling options.

“When is the engagement announcement going to be made?”

“Lady Ryland had already scheduled a gala affair for three weeks from now. The betrothal will be announced that evening.”

“And the wedding?”

“Three weeks after that.”

“A crescendoing close of the Season.” Harry lifted his glass in salute. “Perfect timing.”

“Perfect for what?”

“Six weeks is just the right length for an affair. Either you’re both bored by that point and ready to mutually cry quits, or she’s hoping for a more permanent relationship and you’re suddenly looking for a convenient escape. Marrying someone else tends to send a very clear message that the tryst can only evolve so much farther.”

“That’s true,” he admitted. Of course he’d have to tell her tonight that he was going to be engaged before the month was out. She deserved to know. Yes, telling her immediately would be the only honorable thing to do. That way there would be no deception in their relationship. But what if Fiona were to find out about the affair? he wondered.

“And who knows,” Harry went on blithely. “It could well be that by the time you march yourself to the altar, Lady Baltrip might be quite happy with the idea of being your mistress.”

“Or not,” Ian countered, unable to envision Lady Baltrip patiently and faithfully waiting for stolen moments.

“Well, in any event, enjoy every second that remains of your absolute freedom,” Harry counseled as he edged away. “Once there’s a wife watching your every move, having a good time becomes considerably more complicated.”

Interesting. He didn’t see Fiona as being the sort who would expect a daily accounting for every minute of her husband’s life. She didn’t strike him as the sort of woman who would be enraged by her husband’s infidelity, either. Deeply wounded, yes, but not enraged. From what he’d seen of her temperament so far, he’d wager that she was incapable of anything approaching anger. Yes, she’d pointed a pistol at his chest, but there was considerable difference between resolution and irrational fury. Lady Fiona clearly lacked for nothing in terms of determination.

“Oh!” Harry said, stopping and looking over his shoulder at him. “Did I offer my congratulations on the acceptance of your proposal?”

“No, you didn’t.”

He lifted his glass. Barely. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Harry winked and walked off, leaving Ian alone with his thoughts. They immediately arrowed back to his bride-to-be. Fiona also possessed an amazing sense of grace and uncommon good sense in difficult circumstances. She didn’t want to marry him, but had accepted his proposal because it was the prudent and rational thing to do. And while she’d obviously been dismayed at the idea of their marriage being one of convenience, she’d accepted the possibility with great poise. And he had been honest with her about the likelihood of his having discreet affairs.

“Ian, darling.”

Not that there was anything even remotely discreet about having an affair with Lady Baltrip. At any time.

She looked up at him, peering through her lashes, and purred, “You look as though the weight of the world is on your shoulders this evening. I’d be delighted to remove it for you.”

His body instantly tingled at the prospect. His conscience squirmed. “I have a matter that I need to discuss with you.”

“Shall we ever so nonchalantly wander off to someplace more private for it?”

He knew better. “It might be a good idea to—”

“Follow me, darling,” she whispered, turning away with a seductive smile. “Discreetly, of course.”

His conscience firmly told him that if he had a brain in his head and so much as a dram of good judgment, he’d stay right where he was. Ian threw the last of the champagne down his throat and went after her. By the time he reached the library, he’d disposed of the empty glass and acquired two full ones on the hastily-arrived-at theory that handing her one of them would slow her down a bit, that her taking a sip or two would give him time to tell her about his approaching engagement to her friend’s youngest sister.

And if there was a God with even a modicum of benevolence, Lady Baltrip would instantly and clearly see the inappropriateness of their affair and put an end to it herself. Yes, it would ever so easily take the burden of decency off of him, but the end result was really all that mattered. If she didn’t care one whit about a betrayal of Fiona, though … He’d simply have to find the inner strength to do the right thing without unduly hurting Lady Baltrip’s feelings.

Resolved, he kicked the library door closed behind himself and carried the champagne flutes to the woman waiting for him in front of the flickering hearth. “Lady Baltrip,” he said smoothly, offering her a glass.

“Jane,” she corrected, ignoring the champagne and undoing the buttons on his jacket.

Jane. Now was a helluva time to come by that bit of information. He took a half step back and encountered the leather sofa. His calves pressed hard against the front edge of the massive piece of furniture, he extended the glass again, saying, “I’m afraid, Jane, that I must disappoint you this evening.”

“Oh, that’s impossible, Ian. You’re simply not capable of a poor performance.”

Well, yes, that was true, but … “I mean that I wasn’t able to get to the apothecary shop,” he replied, doggedly pursuing his objective. “Circumstances unexpectedly arose today and I—”

“Not to worry, my darling Ian,” she said, dropping to her knees in front of him and deftly working open the first button on his trousers. “For the moment we don’t need a letter.”

“But—”

“And I brought a supply for us later, just in case.”

God, he needed to stop her hands, but with both of his holding crystal flutes … He glanced at the mantel. Too far.

“Jane,” he began as he tried to force the glasses between the hands artfully working their way down the line of buttons. She laughed and paused just long enough to brush his effort aside and slosh champagne over the rims and onto the carpet.

Ian quickly drained a glass and then blindly tossed the empty crystal onto the sofa behind him. With his free hand, he caught a slender wrist and stayed it, saying tautly, “Jane, stop. There’s something I must tell you.”

Only partially restrained, she smiled up at him and reached inside his trousers for his traitorous member. “You’re so tense this evening, Ian. Not that it’s entirely a bad thing, of course.”

“Jane, please,” he pleaded as he tightened his hold on her wrist. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You talk, I’ll listen,” she murmured as she leaned forward.